of the Rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water’s edge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each with its ruined castle. These are the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at each other face to face; and beneath them, in the valley, stands a cloister,—meet emblem of that orphan child they both so passionately loved.
In a small flat-bottomed boat did the landlady’s daughter row Flemming “over the Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide.” She was a beautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date. Others are great Family Bibles, with both the Old and the New Testament written in them. Others are Mother Goose and nursery tales; others, bad tragedies, or pickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady’s daughter at the Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the affections. It was on that account that Flemming said to her, as they glided out into the swift stream, “My dear child! do you know the story of the Liebenstein?”
