FIRST LOVES. THE SOLDIER AND THE COLONEL. CHAPTER I. Scarcely twenty-five years have passed away since the population of a small German State celebrated, with every show of festive rejoicing, the accession to power of a youthful prince, whose reign his loyal subjects fondly anticipated, would give to them an era of peace and happiness, brightened by the sun of prosperity. The inhabitants of every house and village in the duchy vied with each other in their outward manifestations of esteem and veneration to the latest descendant of the illustrious family that had for ages held the sceptred sway over them. As yet no revolutionary outbreak had ever disturbed the government of this eminent duchy -no opposing party had attempted to restrict the limits of absolute rule, and the young Duke Charles stepped into the vacant seat of his forefathers under the most brilliant auspices. No change whatever was made in the administration or government; the advisers of his late father were retained about his own person, amongst whom was one who had been justly honored with his late royal master's closest confidence. Count Stralenheim, colonel of the duke's body-guard, had served his monarch and his country during a period of many years, with a devotion worthy of the noble name he bore. When first his brave-won honors were clustering on his brow, he married the proud daughter of one of the most ancient families in Germany. Through his distinguished career no taint, however slight, had sullied his name. Beneath his habitual cold reserve there flowed an under-current of generous kindness, endearing him to those around him, and claiming the instinctive homage of his equals and superiors. There was an air of modest dignity in his erect, stately figure, an expression of sadness in his mild features, as though some long fadeless sorrow clung to his memory and heart. A Three children had blessed the count's marriage a son and two daughters. The son, Albert Stralenheim, had grown to manhood under his father's fostering care, and, with the exception of a few years passed at the university, had scarcely ever left his presence. life of noble independence lay before the youth. When a boy he was the playfellow of the Duke Charles, who, a short time after his accession, thought of bestowing on the old sharer of his boyish sports the post of private secretary. This piece of court-gossip was universally well received, for there was that native charm of eloquent ingeniousness about him which ever sparkles on the surface of an honorable mind. His handsome, manly figure was pliant with the graceful suppleness of early manhood; his fair features were lighted with eyes of deepest blue; his well-arched brow was delicately shaded by thick clusters of short brown curls, whilst the first silken down of youth fringed his laughing mouth. Many high-born maidens, with whom he came in courtly contact, thought him cold and proud; nay, half believed that he had a loveless heart; but they knew not of the secret flower he nurtured there; knew not with what pure loyalty his soul clung to one who, although of obscure origin, a lonely orphan, a dependent on the bounty of an aged aunt for her daily sustenance, was yet above the common world like a bright particular star in the luminous sky of his hopeful vision. At the extremity of the small quaint city of Luneburgh, pleasantly situated in the midst of a modest garden stood the humble cottage of Madame Meissen. There was an air of peace and repose about the little home, with its trellised porch and overhanging grape-vine, bordered by fragrant flowers. The interior of the dwelling, too, wore an aspect of neatness and comfort. A large oak dresser,* polished to the brightness of a mirror, and ornamented with a variety of domestic articles, all shining beautifully, filled up one side of the daily sittingroom. Underneath the window stood a small circular mahogany table, covered with needle *Our cupboard or pantry. work, together with some miscellaneous articles of feminine industry. A cage, containing a singing-bird, hung over the latticed casement. A spinning-wheel rested in indolent ease against the opposite wall, and close to it stood an armchair of unusual amplitude. It was summer; the hot afternoon sunshine was playing amongst the leaves, and, as it streamed through the open lattice, fell in broad white patches on the oaken floor. A light breeze, scented with the breath of flowers, relieved the atmosphere of oppressive heat, which nevertheless exercised a drowsy influence over the slumbering faculties of Madame Meissen, who pushed aside her spinning-wheel, took the large arm-chair, and dropped into a profound sleep. Seated at a work-table by the window was Madame Meissen's niece, the artless, beautiful Genevieve. Her young face dimpled with soft smiles, as though some gladsome feeling reveled at her heart, was slightly bent over her needle-work. The golden tresses of her hair fell in rich shades over her cheeks and shoulders. Her eyes, of fairest blue, at times were raised with a flash of joyous light, as though the image of her heart's pure worship stood a palpable reality before her. Her figure, too, possessed that delicate symmetry rarely seen save in some sculptured model, bursting like the budding rose into a gentle fulness, and in every attitude, every bend or movement, retaining without art or effort its graceful outline. But not in the loveliness of form or face lay the fair girl's more exquisite beauty. Her young fresh heart was stored with the purity of innocent thoughts, with an ever sparkling spring of sweet affection. With a simple, childlike faith, she had accepted, treasured, and hoarded the love of the high-born Albert Stralenheim, never doubting his honor, never darkening by a passing shadow of suspicion the brightness his love had given to her life; and to the credit of the young man's true nobility of soul, it must be admitted that never was trust, hope and confidence, more worthily bestowed. Unhappily for the otherwise unbroken peace of that little household, another held the privilege of entering its quiet precincts, one whose evil eye and malicious countenance seemed to throw an unholy blight across the happiness of Genevieve whenever his gaunt form crossed the threshold. This was a man about fifty years of age, called Philip Meissen, who, after a very questionable career, had, during the last few months, been transferred into Colonel Stralenheim's regiment as sergeant-major. He was brother to Madame Meissen's late husband, and as soon as he became attached to the duke's body-guard, which was usually stationed at Luneburg, where also stood the ducal palace, he took the earliest opportunity of improving his rather distant relationship, and placing it on a more familiar and friendly footing. The old dame was in a perpetual state of smiles and simpers whenever the sergeant-major honored her with a visit. Her choicest wine was drawn |