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 evening came, and William had provided himself with lead, and moulds, and coals, and every other requisite, and held himself in readiness to leave the house as soon as he possibly could. He was just about to slip out when the old forester took him by the hand, and with an air of mingled sadness and earnestness said:

“William, I know not what oppresses my spirits, but there is a dread hanging over me of something,—I cannot tell what. Do remain with me to-night; nay do not look so cast down, it is only to guard against possibilities.”

Katherine followed up her father’s request with much intreaty, and conjured him not to leave the cottage that evening. “It is weak, perhaps,” said the old man, “yet I shall be happier if William will consent to remain with us this evening.”

William hesitated much, but Katherine’s endearing looks prevailed, and he at last consented to stay, secretly resolving to carry his plan into execution next night. But his intentions were again frustrated by the arrival of a friend from whom he could not disengage himself. At last the third evening came, and with it the necessity of determining to act in one way or another, for the next day was the day of trial. Katherine and her mother were employed the whole of the forenoon making preparations for the reception of so distinguished a guest as the duke’s commissioner, and at night-fall every thing stood arrayed in the neatest order. The mother warmly saluted William on his return from the forest in the evening, and for the first time hailed him with the endearing appellation of son, while the eyes of her daughter sparkled with all the emotions of a youthful and loving bride. “To-night,” said the father, “we will hold our feast,—to-morrow we shall not be alone, let us then be happy to-night as a family.” So saying he heartily embraced all,