"Then she knew that she had robbed her lover's grave to adorn herself
for a new _verlobter_. After this the ghost of Wilhelm began to
invade her promenades with Fritz, and she walked evening after evening
beneath the chestnuts between her two lovers.

"The gardener's daughter never looked fairer than on her wedding-day.
Armed with all her resolution, and filled with love for Fritz,
she presented herself at the altar. The priest began to recite the
sacramental words, when he came to a pause at the sight of Bettina,
pale and wild-eyed, shivering convulsively in her bridal draperies.

"Wilhelm was again at her side, kneeling on the right, as Fritz on
the left. He was in bridegroom's habit, and he offered a bouquet of
graveyard-flowers--the white immortelle and the forget-me-not. When
Fritz rose and put the ring on her finger she felt an icy hand draw
the token off and replace it by another. At this, overcome with
terror, and making a wild gesture of rejection both to right and left,
she ran shrieking out of the church.

"Such is the true and authentic story of Bettina," concluded my
narrator. "You may see Bettina any day at Ettlingen, a yellow old maid
forty years of age. Every Sunday she goes to mass at Durlach, where
she employs the rest of the day in tending flowers on a grave, the
first grave in the line to the right of the gateway."

I returned to the house with this grim and tender little idyll
crooning through my brains. I took my key and bed-candle, and asked
the porter if a letter had arrived for me from Sylvester Berkley. Not
a line! This silence became inconvenient. Not only did I rely upon