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Max closed the door and came in, bowing with gloomy
embarrassment to the company.

“Welcome, my boy,” said father Von Horn, kindly
offering his hand to the young man, “why did you force
us to send you word of Nina's wedding? You ought, besides,
to have been back long since to your law. Ah!
the mountain winds are a bad thing for students—unless
students are sick from too much study, which I take it
is not the case with Mr. Romeo. Why, what's the matter,
Max?” continued father Von Horn, “your hand is
cold and trembles. Are you sick?”

“No, sir—nothing—” stammered Max, sitting down
moodily, “I rode very fast.”

“Why so?”

“I wished to arrive in time,” said Max, bitterly; “I
thought cousin Nina might be married, as she has been
courted and won, while I was absent.”

Nina saw the storm she had feared, rapidly approaching;—
not only in the unusual address of the young man—
he had called her formally cousin Nina—but in his
moody and agitated looks and tones, so different from that
merry and joyous manner habitual with him. There
was a bitterness in his voice, too, which jarred upon her
heart. The old man also noticed this change in Max's
usual bearing, and said:

“Married while you were absent say you, nephew?

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Well pray whose fault would that have been, had you indeed
not returned? Nina could not tell Mr. Lyttelton
that you were off on a hunting expedition, and appoint
the day after your return for her wedding-day. Come,
come! you are weary and out of humor; get Max some
supper, Nina.”

“I am not hungry, sir,” said Max, his eyes filling with
tears of sorrow and mortification, “and I could not eat.”

“Riding usually gives me an appetite,” said Mr.
Lyttelton, phlegmatically.

“It has not me,” said Max coldly.

Mr. Lyttelton saw an opening for a joke; he caught at
it with the energy of an advocate who sees a weak point
in his opponent's case.

“Perhaps you are in love,” said he smiling; “that I
believe is fatal to the appetite.”

Max's eye suddenly blazed; and he met Mr. Lyttelton's
glance with one of such defiance that that gentleman
was profoundly astonished.

“In love, sir?” said the young man sternly. “What
do you mean?”

Father von Horn rose and laid his hand on the young
man's shoulder.

“Max,” he said, “you must really be unwell, or something
has put you out of humor. You speak to Mr.
Lyttelton as if he were your personal enemy!”

Max uttered not a syllable in denial of his uncle's
hypothesis.

“I am not aware that I have said any thing impolite,
sir,” said Mr. Lyttelton.

“Oh father!” said Nina, coming forward with tears in
her eyes; “don't speak harshly to Max; I know he is
unwell and irritable—you know like me so often.”

“Why daughter,” said the old man, “I had no intention
of speaking harshly to Max. He is not a child for
me to rate for ill-behavior. Come, my boy, throw off your

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ferocious frowns—which I am at my wits' ends about—
and sit down. You must have some supper, it is nearly
eleven o'clock; and you must be hungry.”

“Nearly eleven?” interrupted Mr. Lyttelton looking
at his watch; “so it is, sir. Well I must go, as I have
a record to study to-night. Good-night, sir,” he added
shaking by the hand father Von Horn, who endeavored to
prevail on him to stay longer, alleging with great politeness
the earliness of the hour, “and good-night, Nina.
Be ready to-morrow.”

Having said good-by, Mr. Lyttelton might have very
properly retired, but he waited as usual for the sound of
Nina's voice, beseeching him to stay; perhaps for the
conjugal kiss which she usually bestowed upon his oracular
lips. If Mr. Lyttelton lingered for such a purpose he
lingered in vain. Nina neither asked him to remain, nor
seemed at all disposed to grant him a “salute,” or made
any movement forward even to press his hand before his
departure. And if the reader fails to comprehend the
rationale of this phenomenon we are quite sure we could
not, in a whole volume, convey to him any accurate idea
upon the subject. Mr. Lyttelton, therefore, departed
with scarcely any recoguition of the fact on the part
of Nina; he knew not what to think, but decided upon
the propriety of jealousy, in which the handsome face of
Max entered and played a distinguished part.

Father Von Horn came back holding the candle with
which he had lit his guest out, and unmistakably yawned;
then declared he felt exceedingly sleepy—and then, having
told Nina and Max good-night, without a trace of ill-humor
toward the young man in his manner, retired to
bed. Nina got up to follow him. Max with his head
turned away took no notice of the movement.

Nina went up to him, and took his hand.

“Max,” she said in a low tone, “are you angry with
me?”

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“No,” said the young man turning away.

“Why are you so cold to me, then?” said Nina.

Max raised his head, and a profound sigh, which
seemed to relieve his heart, broke from him.

“Am I cold to you?” he said, “I did not mean to be
cold to you; indeed it would be very ridiculous in me to
be giving myself airs as if I was some important person.
I hope you will forgive me, if I have annoyed you.”

Nina was much moved at the profoundly sad tones in
which these words were uttered.

“No, you have not annoyed me, Max; but you called
me when you came in cousin Nina, and I thought you
were angry with me.”

“I am not angry with you,” Max said, in a low voice.

“But, Max! something is the matter with you! Max
you distress me; I am ready to cry and I will cry in a
minute if you don't tell me what you are so distressed
about. Is it—can it be—Max, can it be!—” stammered
the young girl blushing.

“Yes!” said Max, rising.

For a moment their agitated glances met; Max leaning,
pale and statue-like, against the tall mantle-piece,
Nina standing upright without the power of moving. For
a moment they stood thus silent, and motionless; then
Nina sank into a chair, and covered her face which was
full of tears and blushes.

“Nina,” said the young man, a passionate sob tearing
its way from his breast, “I loved you! I love you
now more than ever. I left you without dreaming of
this—and when I received the intelligence I raved
awhile as unfortunate people always have done, and always
will do. I thought your heart—that wealth more
vast than earth could give me—was at least half my
own. I was mistaken, and for a time my breast was
a storm, which tore it and blackened for the moment
every thing around me. Well, well! the storm has

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subsided—will subside in time, I hope, wholly; I will try to
curb this foolish agitation which is only food for laughter—”

“Oh, Max—Max!—” sobbed Nina.

“You are right, Nina. This is very foolish in me I
know,” he said, “and I will trouble you no more. This
thing came on me like a thunder-clap, and I was surprised,
that is all. Don't let my gloominess disturb you; and
now I will not stand here groaning and sighing. Good-night!”

And leaving Nina in tears, Max went up to his room.
Once more alone his feelings, softened no longer by the
pleading face of Nina, were lashed again into tumultuous
waves. He recalled those ironical words of Mr. Lyttelton—
such he supposed them to be—“perhaps you are in
love;” he treasured up that gentleman's cool smile, and
at the end of half an hour had made up his mind that he
had insulted him. What to do? That was the question.

This question tormented him through all the long
hours of that weary night. Striding up and down the
room, agitated by a thousand thoughts, Max could, after
hours of thought, determine upon nothing.

The dawn found him still pacing up and down. He
took his hat and descended, meeting in the dining-room
with aunt Jenny. Aunt Jenny immediately unfolded
the events of the last two days; the spectre—the night
ride—the catastrophe.

Max caught at this with sombre pleasure; and smiling
scornfully left the house; on what errand we shall discover.