"The Prussiani were victorious, and I think the Teresiani will never dare to recommence the strife; four of their monks lie in their cells with broken noses, and it will be some weeks before the father guardian will be capable of performing his duties as spy; he is sore and stiff, and his mouth is poorer by a few teeth. May all the enemies of the great Frederick share his fate! May God bless the King of Prussia and be gracious to his friends!"

He greeted the baron with the sign of the cross, and withdrew.

The baron remembered the warning of the prior, and hastened quietly from Venice. Already the next morning he was on the highway to Turin. [Footnote: This diplomatic mission failed, because of the faint heart of the King of Sardinia. He rejected the bold propositions of Frederick entirely, and said, in justification of himself, that since the alliance between the powers of France and Austria, he had his head between a pair of tongs, which were ever threatening to close and crush him. Baron Cocceji was not more fortunate in Naples, and after many vain efforts he was forced to return home, having accomplished nothing.--Duten's "Memoirs of a Traveller."]

It was a sunny, summer day-one of those days which incline the heart to prayer, and bring tears of happiness to the eyes. There are no such days in cities; if we would enjoy them we must go into the country--we must seek them in peaceful valleys, in fragrant forests, where the silence is unbroken, except by the fluttering leaves and the singing of birds. We must understand the eloquent silence of Nature in order to enjoy the holy Sabbath quiet of a summer day; and we must be able to hear the language which the flowers breathe forth, to understand the sighing of the wind, and the rustling of the trees.

Very few can do this, but few would care for it. God has not opened the eyes of the hearts of many of us to this extent; these things are hidden by a thick veil from the many; they cannot see the heavenly beauty of Nature--they do not understand the fairy tale which she is ever telling. This is gentle, idyllic, fairy lore, unsought by the learned. It whispers of roses, of dancing elves, of weeping clouds, of dreaming violets.

Happy are those who listen to these fables, who are not called by the necessities of life to hear the roar of cannon--to find all these sweet and holy songs overpowered by the noise of war, the horrors of bloodshed!

War, destructive war, still held a lighted torch over unhappy Germany; cities and villages were in ruins--even the peace of Nature was destroyed. The valleys, usually so quiet, now often resounded with the roar of cannon. The fields remained uncultivated, the meadows uncared for; there were no strong hands to work. The men and youths were gone, only the old graybeards and the women were in the villages, and the work advanced but slowly under their trembling hands. Unhappiness and want, care and sorrow were in the land.

Even in the once peaceful and happy village of Brunen on the Rhine, misery had made itself felt. Grief and anguish dwelt with the bereaved mothers, with the forsaken brides, and the weak old men; with the useless cripples, who had returned from the war, and who spent their time in relating the dangers through which they had passed, in telling of the sons, the brothers, the husbands, and the fathers of those who listened to their tales--those dear ones who were, perhaps, now stretched upon the battle-field.