But Bertalda asked:

certain, that his conjecture was correct. "And what, my dear Undine, did the master of the fountain

wish to say to you?"

The young wife laughed within herself, and made answer: "The day after to-morrow, my dear child, when the anniversary of your name-day* returns, you shall be informed." And this was all she could be prevailed upon to disclose. She merely asked Bertalda to dinner on the appointed day, and requested her to invite her foster-parents; and soon afterward they separated.

"Kühleborn?" said Huldbrand to his lovely wife with an inward shudder, when they had taken leave of Bertalda, and were now going home through the darkening streets.

66

Yes, it was he," answered Undine, "and he would have wearied me with foolish warnings without end. But in the midst of them, quite contrary to his intention, he delighted me with a most welcome piece of news. If you, my dear lord and husband, wish me to acquaint you with it now, you need only command me, and I will freely, and from my heart, tell you all without reserve. But would you confer upon your Undine a very, very great pleasure, only wait till the day after to-morrow, and then you too shall have your share of the surprise."

The knight was quite willing to gratify his wife, in regard to what she had asked with so beautiful a spirit; and this spirit she discovered yet more, for while she was that night falling asleep, she murmured to herself with a smile: "How she will rejoice and be astonished at what her master of the fountain has told me, the dear, happy Bertalda!"

* A literary friend, from whose kindness I have derived the best aid in revising and correcting my version, informs me, that this term "refers to a German custom of celebrating, not only the birth-day, but also the nameday, that is, the day which in the almanac bears the person's Christian name. The old almanacs contained a name for each day in the year, being either the name of a saint, or some other remarkable personage in history."

CHAPTER XI.

Festival of Bertalda's name-day.

THE Company were sitting at dinner; Bertalda, adorned with jewels and flowers without number, the presents of her fosterparents and friends, and looking like some goddess of Spring, sat beside Undine and Huldbrand at the head of the table. When the sumptuous repast was ended, and the dessert was placed before them, permission was given that the doors should be left open this was in accordance with the good old custom in Germany, that the common people might see and rejoice in the festivity of their superiors. Among these spectators the servants carried round cake and wine.

Huldbrand and Bertalda waited with secret impatience for the promised explanation, and never, except when they could not well help it, moved their eyes from Undine. But she still continued silent, and merely smiled to herself with secret and heartfelt satisfaction. All who were made acquainted with the promise she had given, could perceive that she was every moment on the point of revealing a happy secret; and yet, as children sometimes delay tasting their choicest dainties, she still withheld the communication, with a denial that made it the more desired. Bertalda and Huldbrand shared the same delightful feeling, while in anxious hope they were expecting the unknown disclosure, which they were to receive from the lips of their friend.

At this moment, several of the company pressed Undine to give them a song. This appeared to her to be quite a welltimed request, and, immediately ordering her lute to be brought, she sung the following words:

* In reading some of the verses of Fouquè, we cannot but remember the question of Hamlet to the player,—'Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? As one example, among many, we may take the original of his miniature picture here:

These four little lines, descriptive of the scene of Undine's song, simple as they are, cost me more trouble in trying to mould them into a fit English form, than I well like to acknowledge. I made several attempts, without much success, to translate them to my mind. Among these versions, the following had the merit of not being the worst:

'The morning beams in glory,
Where wild-flowers gaily bloom
Where dewy grass is waving
The lake's fresh marge along;'

but after all, the more verbal rendering, as it now stands, seemed to be preferable.

But cannot fold around you
A mother's loving arms ;—

Far, far away that mother's fond embrace.
"Life's early dawn just opening faint,

Your eye yet beaming Heaven's own smile,
So soon your first, best guardians gone ;-
Severe, poor child, your fate,—

All, all to you unknown.

"A noble duke has cross'd the mead,

And near you check'd his steed's career :
Wonder and pity touch his heart;

With knowledge high and manners pure

He rears you, makes his castle home your own.

"How great, how infinite, your gain!

Of all the land you bloom the loveliest,
Yet, ah! that first, best blessing,
The bliss of parents' fondness,

You left on strands unknown."

Undine let fall her lute with a melancholy smile; the eyes of Bertalda's noble foster-parents were filled with tears.

"Ah yes, it was so,—such was the morning on which I found you, poor orphan," cried the duke with deep emotion; "the beautiful singer is certainly right; still

'That first, best blessing,

The bliss of parents' fondness,'

it was beyond our power to give you."

"But we must hear also, what happened to the poor parents," said Undine, as she struck the chords, and sung:

"Through her chambers roams the mother,

Searching, searching everywhere;
Seeks, and knows not what, with yearning,
Childless home still finding there.

"Childless home!-O sound of anguish!
She alone the anguish knows,
There by day who led her dear one,

There who rock'd its night repose.

"Beechen buds again are swelling,*

Sunshine warms again the shore,
Ah, fond mother, cease your searching,
Comes the loved and lost no more.

"Then when airs of eve are fresh'ning,
Home the father wends his way,
While with smiles his woe he's veiling,
Gushing tears his heart betray.

"Well he knows, within his dwelling,
Still as death he'll find the gloom,
Only hear the mother moaning,-

No sweet babe to smile him home."

"O tell me, in the name of Heaven tell me, Undine, where are my parents?" cried the weeping Bertalda. "You certainly know; you must have discovered them, all wonderful as you are, for otherwise you would never have thus torn my heart. Can they be already here? May I believe it possible?" Her eye glanced rapidly over the brilliant company, and rested upon a lady of high rank, who was sitting next to her foster-father.

Then, with an inclination of her head, Undine beckoned toward the door, while her eyes overflowed with the sweetest emotion. "Where are the poor parents waiting?" she asked; and the old fisherman, diffident and hesitating, advanced with his wife from the crowd of spectators. Swift as the rush of hope within them, they threw a look of inquiry, now at Undine, and now at the beautiful lady, who was said to be their daughter.

"It is she! it is she there, before you!" exclaimed the restorer of their child, her voice half choked with rapture; and both the aged parents embraced their recovered daughter, weeping aloud and praising God.

But, shocked and indignant, Bertalda tore herself from their Such a discovery was too much for her proud spirit to

arms.

* For 'swelling,' I should prefer to read 'greening,' as 'grünen' is the more picturesque expression of the original, had I found any authority to justify me in its use.