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 him lately, and to-day I have received his answer. It is for the purpose of confiding it to the hermit, and receiving his advice that I am here, but he is not yet come.”

“What says your uncle?”

“He himself is unfortunate,” she replied, forgetting her own unhappy state, “he has many children, and no bread to give them.” Sighing again she held her hand before her eyes, as if beholding before her some yawning precipice that turned her giddy.

Thus, without intending it, she had made me acquainted with her condition.

“What will you do, then?” I enquired anxiously.

“I know not,” she said, with emotion, whilst she struggled to restrain her falling tears; “the good hermit would have told me; but he is not here.”

“He would have told you,” I replied, “that you should pray to God, and put your trust in him.”

“Ah! dear sir, that is what I daily do; and I trust that he will grant my prayer. Hitherto I have lived upon what was left me by mother, but that was little, for she was poor;—now that is gone, and I am left destitute. I have no one who can assist me; but my God will not leave me to perish miserably. I must leave this place, though I know not where to turn my steps in the wide world.”

“And what are you able to do?” I enquired, as I looked at her delicate little hand, the lily whiteness of which could not be matched by any courtly dame.

“I know not myself what I can do,” she replied, smiling abashed, and looking downwards half ashamed. “It is but very little; others, however, gain their living, who know not much more, and could I only once leave this place, no doubt I might find a chance of procuring some situation where I may faithfully employ my time. There is nothing but the ashes of my dearly-beloved mother to keep me here. Two young girls of Shwytz, who left this place some time since for