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.



CHAPTER IV.

THE MAID OF MALINES.

IT was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English usually
term it; the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to divine worship;
and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld had
gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred
edifice.

A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the ground,
and apparently listening for some sound; for without raising his looks
from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with an intent
and anxious expression of countenance. He held in one hand a staff, in
the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on the ground;
every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come
back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not; the dog, wearied