Of such tales I have selected but a few; I know not that they are the least unworthy of repetition,--they are those which many recollections induce me to repeat the most willingly.

Gertrude loved these stories, for she had not yet lost, by the coldness of the world, one leaf from that soft and wild romance which belonged to her beautiful mind; and, more than all, she loved the sound of a voice which every day became more and more musical to her ear.

"Shall I tell you," said Trevylyan, one morning, as he observed her gloomier mood stealing over the face of Gertrude,--"shall I tell you, ere yet we pass into the dull land of Holland, a story of Malines, whose spires we shall shortly see ?" Gertrude's face brightened at once, and as she leaned back in the carriage as it whirled rapidly along, and fixed her deep blue eyes on Trevylyan, he began the following tale..