The village itself is little known or frequented, except by visitors from Darmstadt, who come on Sundays in their gayest attire and drink coffee in the gardens of the 'Crown,' while the men enjoy their schoppen of Auerbach Auslese, and smoke their pipes.

In the winter the Crown Gardens are closed, and the little inn itself is silent and deserted. But mine host is accustomed to this, and it in nowise disconcerts him. The waiters are dismissed, the rooms are closed, and Herr Diepenbroch and his wife, and sundry young Diepenbrochs, spend the winter months in quiet retirement.

With the first day of spring the work recommences. Sophie Meyer, the pretty chambermaid, is reinstalled. Karl Weiss, the waiter, is back again at his post, the seats and tables are arranged in the gardens under the trees, the young Diepenbrochs hand foaming glasses from table to table, and the father Diepenbroch walks to and fro with a benignant expression of coun

tenance, rubbing his hands with satisfaction that work is beginning again.

Leaving the little inn, the road winds through the village, a cheerful-looking village, with a stream running through it, intersected by small bridges at almost every cottage. Here the women wash their pots and pans, making them look like silver or the brightest steel; and small boys fix tiny mill-wheels in the current, and watch them as they are forced round and round, in imitation of the bigger mill-wheels that, further up the country, are forming such a source of wealth and industry and power; for the millers of the valley are no ordinary people. Wealthy, well-to-do peasants, they form a class somewhat akin to our English yeomanry, except that, with all their riches and independence, they possess none of that natural refinement that belongs to an English yeoman, and their independence is that of Germany, and not of England.

Leaving the village, 'the road becomes one continuous ascent. It is the Muhlthal.

The

stream running along the road-side becomes more gurgling and clear as we approach the hills, which gradually draw closer and closer, until at last the road becomes little else than a gorge between the wooded heights. Here and there, as the gorge opens, we catch a sight of a picturesque mill, with its busy signs of life and monotonous roar and splash. At one of these Harry Newton halted. He was tired, and was glad of rest.

An old man, with a face reddened by the grape or the sun, was just emerging from a huge cellar contiguous to the house. He had a benevolent expression of countenance, and his broad flattened nose and sleepy eye gave one the idea of a man who contributed materially to diminish the contents of the wine-casks visible in the cool gloom of the cellar.

'Will you give me a glass of your wine, Mässinger?' said Newton, addressing the old fellow.

He started; something in the voice seemed to awaken recollection, but only mistily.

Wine and sun had done something towards

deadening his faculties.

He

'Only go in,' he said, with a puzzled look; 'you'll find the mistress there, and hesitated. Did a thought flash across his vacant brain as to whom he was addressing, and that there was one in there that his visitor might perchance like to see? or was he sending his guest to the mistress, satisfied that Frau Mässinger's keen eye would at once solve the difficulty, and set the matter at rest as to the stranger's name? Here, Frau, make the Englishman welcome,' he said, as he lifted the latch of the housedoor and ushered Newton in.

The room was empty into which he entered. It was evidently the living-room of the family. There was a large table, inscribed with many names and indentations, and that had seen years and scores of years of service, and round it, against the wall, were two or three wooden benches. At the other end there stood an old-fashioned dark wooden bureau, which had long ceased to retain its

former office, and was now used as a sort of family cupboard; and opposite to it, or rather at right angles, was a tall closet, with glass doors, exhibiting an array of pewter dishes of various sizes and shapes. There was nothing in the room to betoken wealth, and yet Müller Mässinger was reckoned among the richest millers in the valley.

At the sound of her husband's voice, Frau Mässinger appeared in the doorway opposite to that at which the stranger had entered, and leading to a room beyond. She was a contrast to her husband. Her small, compact, and wiry figure looked as if made for work; her eye was keen and shrewd, her voice harsh and querulous. She had the appearance of a woman who never overlooked the main chance, who understood how to make her way in the world, and who had an eye to business beyond anything else. And yet, as I remember her, it is not entirely without admiration. It is all very well to picture women as beings whom we are to love and to defend and shelter, as characterless and