In the Yule-Log Glow, Book II | Page 6

the old
castle. They carried no candle, but the baron noticed that everything
seemed perfectly light wherever they stood, but relapsed into darkness
as soon as they had passed by. The goblin spoke first.
"I say, baron, you've been an uncommon old brute in your time, now,
haven't you?"
"H'm," said the baron, reflectively; "I don't know. Well, yes, I rather
think I have."
"How jolly miserable you've been making those two young people, you
old sinner! You know who I mean."
"Eh, what? You know that, too?" said the baron.

"Know it; of course I do. Why, bless your heart, I know everything, my
dear boy. But you have made yourself an old tyrant in that quarter,
considerably. Ar'n't you blushing, you hard-hearted old monster?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," said the baron, scratching his nose, as if that
was where he expected to feel it. "I believe I have treated them badly,
though, now I come to think of it."
At this moment they reached the door of Bertha's chamber The door
opened of itself at their approach.
"Come along," said the goblin; "you won't wake her. Now, old
flinty-heart, look there."
The sight that met the baron's view was one that few fathers could have
beheld without affectionate emotion. Under ordinary circumstances,
however, the baron would not have felt at all sentimental on the subject,
but to-night something made him view things in quite a different light.
I shouldn't like to make affidavit of the fact, but it's my positive
impression that he sighed.
Now, my dear reader, don't imagine I'm going to indulge your
impertinent curiosity with an elaborate description of the sacred details
of a lady's sleeping apartment. You're not a fairy, you know, and I don't
see that it can possibly matter to you whether fair Bertha's dainty little
bottines were tidily placed on a chair by her bedside, or thrown
carelessly, as they had been taken off, upon the hearth-rug, where her
favorite spaniel reposed, warming his nose in his sleep before the last
smouldering embers of the decaying fire; or whether her crinoline--but
if she did wear a crinoline, what can that possibly matter to you?
All I shall tell you is, that everything looked snug and comfortable; but,
somehow, any place got that look when Bertha was in it.
And now a word about the jewel in the casket--pet Bertha herself.
Really, I'm at a loss to describe her. How do you look when you're
asleep?--Well, it wasn't like that; not a bit! Fancy a sweet girl's face,

the cheek faintly flushed with a soft, warm tint, like the blush in the
heart of the opening rose, and made brighter by the contrast of the
snowy pillow on which it rested; dark silken hair, curling and clustering
lovingly over the tiniest of tiny ears, and the softest, whitest neck that
ever mortal maiden was blessed with; long silken eyelashes, fringing
lids only less beautiful than the dear earnest eyes they cover. Fancy all
this, and fancy, too, if you can, the expression of perfect goodness and
purity that lit up the sweet features of the slumbering maiden with a
beauty almost angelic, and you will see what the baron saw that night.
Not quite all, however, for the baron's vision paused not at the bedside
before him, but had passed on from the face of the sleeping maiden to
another face as lovely, that of the young wife, Bertha's mother, who
had, years before, taken her angel beauty to the angels.
The goblin spoke to the baron's thought. "Wonderfully like her, is she
not, baron?" The baron slowly inclined his head.
"You made her very happy, didn't you?"
The tone in which the goblin spoke was harsh and mocking.
"A faithful husband, tender and true! She must have been a happy wife,
eh, baron?"
The baron's head had sunk upon his bosom. Old recollections were
thronging into his awakened memory. Solemn vows to love and cherish
somewhat strangely kept. Memories of bitter words and savage oaths
showered at a quiet and uncomplaining figure, without one word in
reply. And, last, the memory of a fit of drunken passion, and a hasty
blow struck with a heavy hand. And then of three months of fading
away; and last, of her last prayer--for her baby and him.
"A good husband makes a good father, baron. No wonder you are
somewhat chary of rashly intrusting to a suitor the happiness of a sweet
flower like this. Poor child! it is hard, though, that she must think no
more of him she loves so dearly. See! she is weeping even in her
dreams. But you have good reasons, no doubt. Young Carl is wild,
perhaps, or drinks, or gambles, eh? What! none of these? Perhaps he is

wayward and