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 A ROUND TABLE 
 
 OF THE REPRESENTATIVE 
 
 GERMAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS.
 
 
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 A ROUND TABLE 
 
 OF THE REPRESENTATIVE 
 
 GERMAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS 
 
 At which is Served a Feast of Excellent Stories. 
 
 BY 
 
 CONRAD V. BOLANDEN 
 FERD. von BRACKEL 
 Dr. H. CARDAUNS 
 KARL DOMANIG 
 EMMY GIEHRL 
 HEINRICH HANSJAKOB 
 
 ANTONIE HAUPT 
 M. HERBERT 
 ANTONIE JUNGST 
 EVERILDA von PUTZ 
 OTTO von SCHACHING 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, S.J. 
 
 With Portraits, Biographical Sketches, and Bibliography. 
 
 
 Santa Barbara, California 
 
 NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS, 
 
 Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 
 1902.
 
 Copy«iGHT, 1902, BY Benziger Brothers. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sister Angela ..... Antonie Jungst 9 
 Afra. a Tyrolese Tale of the Eighteenth 
 
 Century .... Otto von Schaching 25 
 
 The Postilion of Schoenberg . . Karl Domanig 41 
 
 Sacrifice. A Tyrolese Village Tale . Everilda von Putz 59 
 
 Just a Simple Story . . Ferdinande von Br ache I jj 
 
 Tinsel ....... M. Herbert 99 
 
 Children of Mary .... Emmy Giehrl 117 
 
 The Good Dean Ensfried. A Story of the 
 
 Twelfth Century . . . . H. Kerner 137 
 King Ratbodo. A Tale of the Seventh 
 
 Century .... Conrad von Bolanden 157 
 
 Nicholas Cusanus .... Antonie Haupt 177 
 Long Philip. A Tale of the Time of 
 
 Frederick William I. . . Joseph Spillmann, S.J. 195 
 
 From the Story of an Unhappy Life . H. Hansjakob 221
 
 ANTONIE JUNGST. 
 
 Antonie JiJNGST was born in Werne, Westphalia, on June 13, 
 1843, and was baptized on the 27th, in the Catholic faith of her 
 n:iother. Her father was a Protestant and a descendant of a 
 preacher family well known in the olden German literature. After 
 the death of both her parents the child found a second home in 
 the house of Judge Crone in Rheine, Westphalia. Her parents by 
 adoption sent her to the Ursulines at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1860 to 
 complete her education. She studied with them for a year and
 
 a hc-If and then removed to Miinster with the Crones. Here she 
 came under the influence of the bHnd poet and teacher. Professor 
 Schlueter, and the association undoubtedly liad a great influence 
 on her development. Yet, though she read to the venerable 
 Processor for hours every v/eek, and studied English and Italian 
 poetry with him, she could not, for a long time, bring herself to 
 show him her own attempts at poetry. 
 
 She lived for years in Miinster, devoting herself to the care of 
 her aging foster-mother, after the death cf Judge Crone. Every 
 summer there was an excursion into Switzerland, the Tyrol, or to 
 Italy, as a rest and inspiration. 
 
 Since 1893, when her adopted mother died, the authoress has 
 lived alone, giving herself up entirely to charity and to her writings. 
 
 She first came to public notice in 1883 by the publication of 
 her epic '• Konradin," which deserves to rank with the best that 
 German epic literature has produced. The poem ran through 
 several editions and was followed by a prose work,"Der Glocken 
 Romfahrt, " which, though not in measured rhythm, had yet the 
 spirit of poetry in its telling. Then appeared another epic poem 
 "Der Tod Baldurs." In 1889 there followed "Gesucht und 
 Gefunden," "Tagesbuchblatter eines alten Frauleins," and the 
 epic, "Unierm Krummstab." A few years after she sent forth; 
 "Das Vater Unser. " a cycle of poems; "Wider Willen," three 
 novels; " Leben und Weben," songs and poems; " Rerinald von 
 Reinhardsbrun, " a novel; and others. Her latest book, "Roma 
 Eterna," consists of impressions, in prose and poetry, of the 
 Eternal City.
 
 Sister UrxQcla. 
 
 BY A. JUNGST. 
 
 A TELEGRAM from an overkind officer friend brought me back 
 to the city abruptly from a trip to my old home in May of last 
 year. To be sure, my furlough was not up for another week, but 
 the news of the transfer of the major and the retirement of the 
 colonel of the regiment in which I was surgeon-major made the 
 stay at the country-seat of my brother-in-law seem tedious. I 
 was filled with the desire to be present myself at these far-reach- 
 ing changes. 
 
 So I bade my brother and his wife, my nephews and my 
 nieces farewell early the next morning. They all seemed very 
 sorry to see the bachelor uncle go. 
 
 By some miscalculation on the part of the coachman we 
 turned the corner of the station street just as the express puffed 
 away with apparently delighted malice at our discomfiture. If I 
 did not want to have the tearful scenes of the morning repeated 
 on the next day, there was nothing but to wait here for the local 
 train, due in two hours, and spend the night in Hanover, instead 
 of Berlin. I took the matter as cheerfully as possible, therefore, 
 and after enduring two long hours on the tedious streets of the 
 little town, the train at last came along and carried me off 
 through a stretch of not less tedious moor country. I had just 
 replaced my watch, after pulling it out for the tenth time to cal- 
 culate whether the train would arrive in Hanover in time to per- 
 mit me to hear the opera — it was the " Cavalleria Rusticana," as I 
 had taken care to learn — when there was a jerk that made the 
 windows of the coup6 rattle, and before I had time to think what 
 might be happening the train was at a standstill in the wide 
 field. I rushed out to learn what was wrong. Startled faces 
 
 9
 
 10 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 everywhere, astonishment, aimless questionings, and an equally 
 aimless running to and fro on the part of the passengers, upset 
 as ruthlessly as I had been, in their plans for the immediate 
 future. The axle of a locomotive was broken and a continuation 
 of the journey was not to be considered at present. 
 
 " If the ladies and gentlemen will kindly walk on to the next 
 station — it is only a little quarter of an hour's walk to Schilda — 
 the station for Wellendorf '' — the conductor, a pleasant, gray- 
 haired man, tried to suggest to the excited passengers, " in little 
 more than an hour the damage will be repaired, and then we can 
 go on without danger." 
 
 I took out my watch once more and looked at it, full of annoy- 
 ance. Half-past three ! We were due in Hanover at seven ! As 
 it was it would be nine or more and no choice but to spend the 
 beautiful May evening in stuffy hotel rooms. But what was to 
 be done? In the end, perhaps, I ought to have been grateful to 
 have escaped without injury. Except for my tourist bag and 
 umbrella, I had no luggage, and, taking these, I followed the 
 other travelers towards the little station indicated. 
 
 " Ah, Major ! What a pleasure ! Are you bound for Wellen- 
 dorf, too?" 
 
 "For Wellendorf?" I asked in astonishment, and turned to 
 look at the speaker, a handsome j'oung man of about twenty. I 
 recognized him as Hugo Forster, a rising young artist, whom I 
 had met some time before in Dresden at the house of a friend. 
 Seemingly most agreeable in the midst of the desolation of tedium 
 at this place and time, it was doubly pleasing to meet him. 
 
 " Well, yes," said the young man, smilingly, after we had ex- 
 changed greetings; "you have taken your luggage with you." 
 
 " Oh, yes," I interrupted. " Habit, my dear young friend. 
 Experience has made me wise, and I never leave my things be- 
 hind me in a railway carriage. But what about Wellendorf? 
 The name seems most familiar, and yet I can not connect it at 
 present." 
 
 " At Wellendorf the large provincial asylum for idiots is 
 located," the young man said in a low voice. " I thought — "
 
 A. JUNG8T. 11 
 
 " You thought I wished to follow up some scientific studies ? " 
 I interrupted him once more. " No, Herr Forster^ this time my 
 journey is solely one of recreation. Indeed, I expected to pass 
 this evening listening to the new opera by Mascagni, and instead 
 I shall have to spend it in that disconsolate corner." I pointed at 
 the village whose low-roofed cottages were just rising to our 
 view line. " Here I shall have to spend hours of weary waiting 
 until the engine is sufficiently repaired to continue the journey. 
 It is most good fortune to have met you — " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, Major. I go on at once." 
 
 "You go on? But where to, for heaven's sake? Surely not 
 to Wellendorf." 
 
 " I am sorry to say, to Wellendorf," my companion answered, 
 with a sigh. Turning away and seeming to follow intently the 
 upward flight of a lark, he went on in a lower tone : " You do not 
 know, perhaps, that I lost my father when I was very young, and 
 that my mother has been an invalid for years, and that my only 
 sister is among the unfortunate children at Wellendorf? It is a 
 hard fate ! But hardest for my poor mother, whose heart is 
 bound up in her young daughter, and yet may not have her near 
 her." 
 
 " And how long has the little one been in the asylum ? " 
 
 " Since she was five years old. A conscienceless nurse, who was 
 secretly given to drink, dropped the child when she was barely 
 nine months old. The injuries she received were followed by epi- 
 leptic attacks and finally by a settled dementia." 
 
 The young man paused, overcome by his emotions, and I, too, 
 was silent, touched by the tragedy of his simple words. So we 
 walked on together the short distance remaining to the station, 
 each following his own thoughts. The platform and waiting- 
 rooms were crowded with the passengers who had hurried on 
 ahead of us, and were now impatiently waiting for the saving train. 
 A light, two-seated wagon was waiting at the station gate. Young 
 Forster spoke a few words to the attendant, took his luggage, 
 which had been brought after him, and then turned to me. 
 
 " Adieu/' he said, holding out his hand and giving me a cor-
 
 12 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 dial clasp. " May we meet again under more pleasant circum- 
 stances. I hope you may not have to wait too long here." 
 
 " One naoment," I said, taking in the discomforts of the wait 
 at the little station and reflecting that I might not reach Han- 
 over until midnight, " I should like to go with you. I have, to 
 be sure, seen many other asylums, but in some respects Wellen- 
 dorf is singular. If I do not intrude — " 
 
 " Oh, not at all,'' he hastened to assure me, while I could see 
 a look of relief in his serious eyes. " You do not realize how 
 great a kindness it is not to leave me alone to-morrow, when my 
 unhappy sister receives Holy Communion for the first time. To 
 be alone with her and with my memories — " He stopped suddenly 
 and went quickly ahead to the waiting wagon. After a few min- 
 utes we were rolling away from the inhospitable station over a good 
 road, winding between hills where forest and field alternated in 
 charming variety. After about two hours we came to Wellendorf, 
 nestled close against a high hill. A dozen houses hidden among 
 green trees half way up the hill, the vast buildings of the asylum, 
 the whole overtopped by the slender church spire. That was all. 
 
 The wagon stopped before the door of the Golden Deer, the 
 only inn of the tiny village, and in a few moments I was bestowed 
 in one of its cell-like rooms. After a light luncheon I followed 
 my companion to St. Mary's House. As I did not want to em- 
 barrass the young man during his interview with the Mother 
 Superior and the Sister in charge, I left him at the door, and 
 walked slowly along the garden wall further on up the hill. 
 
 It was a wondrously beautiful May evening. So peaceful, so 
 hallowed, that I, tossed back and forth by the whirl of the great 
 world, felt a balm I had not known for many years. In the 
 cloudless blue of the sky the golden sun smiled down upon the 
 young fields and meadows fair in the tender greenness of May, and 
 the forest trees, lining themselves in proud majesty along the 
 hillsides up and up until lost in blue mists, were alive with the 
 first beauty of spring. The curling-leaved rose-topped oaks stood 
 out sharply against the light, shimmering green of the beeches 
 and the dark needles of the pines. Innumerable buds and bios-
 
 A. Ji/NGST. 18 
 
 soms were wherever the sun had kissed the grateful earth. The 
 hammering whistle of the blackbird and the call of the finch 
 sounded back and forth ; but, above all — oh, harsh discord in the 
 sweet harmony of nature, gruesome intrusion on the joy of the 
 young world ! — there came an indefinable mixture of sounds, mar- 
 row-piercing noises like the echo of the agony of a thousand 
 tortured human hearts. Wherever I turned, the many-voiced 
 surge followed me, that rose moaning, laughing, shrieking out of 
 the walls of the insane asylum and seemed to hover quiveringly in 
 the silent air above. 
 
 Even more sharply the contrast cut into my soul when, late 
 at night, tempted by the bright moonlight and the sweet breath- 
 ings of the gentle spring air, I sat at my window, letting the last 
 cigar be followed by yet one more and then the last. A precious 
 self-unconscious reverie softly crept over me and had almost 
 lulled me into slumber when a strange sound roused me sharply. 
 
 In the blooming lilac bushes of the inn garden a nightingale 
 was beginning her soft, sad-noted song, letting it gradually rise 
 fuller and higher, and at the same time from the heights above, 
 in clear and wondrously sweet tones, came the spring soiUg of 
 Wagner's " Walkiire," so strong, so pure, so full of heart and 
 sense-constraining power, that it fairly caused me to feel a chill 
 dread that comes with the touch of the supernatural. Never had 
 the finished performances of the most renowned prima donnas on 
 the stages of the great cities stirred me as did this song in the 
 breathless spring night. 
 
 I listened motionless and strained my eyes in vain to discover 
 the unseen singer. At last I saw her. At one of the windows of 
 the institution opposite, holding fast to the iron bars and sending 
 forth one aria after another, she crouched. The nightingale in the 
 lilac bushes seemed to listen astonished and then became silent, but 
 then, too, the singer at the window ceased. And when, after a 
 little, the bird began to sing again, tentatively, delicately, as if in 
 awe of the mighty volume of melody to which it had just listened, 
 the song from above began again, appealing, repining, until both 
 voices melted into each other in a thrilling exuberance.
 
 14 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 Thus they kept up a sweet response through the whole night, 
 the song-enchanted nightingale in her bower of blossoms, and the 
 poor lunatic behind the iron bars of her cell. It was no wonder 
 that sleep shunned my eyes, and that the dawn found me still lost 
 in reveries. 
 
 A beautiful morning came up over \Yellendorf . Light streamed 
 from the skies and rose from the earth — green and gold and blos- 
 som-rich, the colors of nature mixed with her kindest touch — 
 only the heavy rising walls of the asylum remained a sinister blot 
 on the sun-warmed picture. 
 
 My first question was about the mysterious singer. Hugo 
 Forster, whose room faced the street, had heard nothing, and was 
 therefore not a little astonished at my pale and disordered appear- 
 ance. But my landlady could tell me more. 
 
 " The gentleman means the crazy Valdina ? " she began, hem- 
 ming apologetically. " Oh, but she is the poor, unhappy creature, 
 and so beautiful, so beautiful! The whole year she mopes in a 
 corner, but when spring comes and the nightingale sings again, 
 then something comes over her, and she sings and sings every 
 night with such feeling that you can not help crying." 
 
 "Valdina?" I asked, reflectively. "Was she not the famous 
 singer at Bayreuth ? " 
 
 " Just so, sir," the landlady began again, glad to have a chance 
 to talk. " The people say she could sing like an angel. And 
 beautiful she was, and smart. Smart enough to turn all the 
 men's heads. But she did not care for any of them. She just 
 made fun of them, until one day a fine, young gentleman came 
 along. Slie loved him with all her heart, and he left her. Then 
 the poor thing lost her head, or it went to her head, as the people 
 say, and since then — " The landlady tapped her forehead signifi- 
 cantly and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 My companion, who had been giving evidence of impatience 
 during this discussion, urged that we go on at once. The bells 
 were ringing the second time, announcing the immediate be- 
 ginning of the sacred ceremony. 
 
 Wrapt in recollections of the talented and beautiful singer
 
 A. JUNGST. 15 
 
 whom I had seen several times as Elsa in " Lohengrin," I silently 
 followed young Forster up the winding path. The door of the 
 institution's church was wide open, a sea of flowers and lights filled 
 the interior, and a considerable number of people were crowding 
 into the pews and aisles. We had barely taken the seats shown 
 us when a door beside the sacristy was opened, and the First Com- 
 munion children entered, led by several nuns. There were a great 
 many children, the girls dressed in white, with veil and wreath, 
 the boys in black, and carrying a lily in the right hand. My eyes 
 wandered over the paired rows. It was a sad picture for the eye 
 of a physician, these awkward, sometimes misshapen and partially 
 developed figures, the narrow heads and ugly faces; a beautiful 
 sight, however, for the eye of the Christian and the philanthropist, 
 for as little intelligence as these foreheads showed, there was yet 
 a ray of higher light and an expression of touching helplessness, 
 childlike faith, and interior joy. I turned from the children to the 
 devoted women whose unremitting care and love had waked this 
 slumbering spark, and by years of endeavor had fanned it to a tiny 
 flame. How much patience it must have taken merely to train 
 these children so that, at a given signal, they all took their places 
 and recited the Creed with firm voices and clear enunciation ! A 
 tall Sister, whose graceful figure and movements were not entirely 
 concealed by the heavy folds of her habit, seemed to have the most 
 influence with these dwarfed beings. She controlled the whole 
 lot, flitting here and there, ordering, directing, swiftly, quietly. 
 Her voice, rising clear and sweet above the uncertain childish 
 quavers, intoned the beautiful German church song, "'Hier liegt 
 vor Deiner Majestat."* For a long time I tried in vain to get a 
 glimpse of the face of the nun. Although she knelt very near me 
 it was impossible to penetrate the screening veil. At last she 
 turned her head in my direction, and for a moment, a single mo- 
 ment only, our eyes met. 
 
 I started, astonished, almost afraid. Where had I seen this 
 beautiful_, spiritual face before? The great brown eyes with the 
 
 * Here lies before Thy Majesty.
 
 16 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 long, upturning la&hes and the delicately marked eyebrows ? Seen 
 her I had, that was certain, but where and when? 
 
 " Who is that ? " I asked, excitedly, of my companion kneeling 
 beside me. 
 
 " Sister Angela," was the brief answer, conveying not the least 
 information to me. 
 
 Who was Sister Angela? What had been her name in the 
 world? These questions so preoccupied me that, to my shame, I 
 must say I perceived very little of the progress of the holy sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 It was not until the child voices began, " Lord, I am not 
 worthy," that I was roused from my abstraction. Karely, or per- 
 haps never, has anything moved me so deeply as to hear these 
 words from the lips of these innocent ones in the saddest sense, 
 the little ones who will always be children, the poorest of the poor, 
 who could offer to the Almighty Creator nothing but a heart un- 
 touched by the breath of the world. 
 
 I do not believe that there was a dry eye, and I, for my part, 
 was not ashamed of the tears that unconsciously ran down my 
 cheeks^ when the children in perfect order, in reverent manner 
 and plainly awed by the feeling that something great and won- 
 derful was about to happen to them, approached Communion. 
 
 Blessed children, in spite of their poverty of mind; blessed 
 women, who, in high-hearted self-forgetting, have given them- 
 selves to the care of these blighted blossoms of humanity ! Such 
 things are found only where charity springs from the living tree 
 of the Body of Christ through the Holy Catholic Church. 
 
 After Mass was over we were allowed to follow the children 
 into the refectory, where, upon tables covered with flowers, their 
 breakfast was awaiting them. Here the fifteen-year-old Emma 
 Forster, my friend's sister, was presented to me. She was a 
 physically well developed and healthy-looking girl, on whose 
 broad shoulders a disproportionately small head seemed to hold 
 itself somewhat unsteadily. 
 
 The child was well-behaved and affectionate, though very shy, 
 and seemed much pleased with the presents her brother had
 
 A. JUNGST. 17 
 
 brought for her. I could give her nothing just then, but promised 
 to send her a souvenir for her first Holy Communion Da}'^ with 
 the next mail, 
 
 " What ? " she asked, fixing the peculiarly vacant eyes upon 
 me. "A doll?" 
 
 " Emma ! " her brother protested. " You forget — " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, dropping her eyes, repentantly, and pull- 
 ing at a corner of her veil. " I forgot that Our Dear Lord came 
 to me to-day ; then one does not have dolls any more. I will ask 
 Sister x\ngela." 
 
 Sister Angela ! That was the word that broke the spell for 
 all of them, their hold and guiding light. Here she had to fix a 
 torn veil for a little girl, there she had to coax a poor boy who 
 refused to eat, now urge the lagging ones, then restrain the over- 
 hasty ; everywhere adjusting and pacifying. 
 
 I watched her movements with tense interest, turning over 
 and over again the question, where I had seen her before. Hugo 
 Forster could give me no information. He knew the patient 
 teacher of his sister only by her name in religion. 
 
 After the breakfast was finished I asked the Superior for per- 
 mission to visit the living and sleeping rooms of the children, 
 which occupied an entire wing of the building. My request was 
 cheerfully granted, and Sister Angela was assigned as my guide. 
 
 It seemed to me as if the Sister hesitated a little at the words 
 of the Superior and started to say something, but then immedi- 
 ately conquered the feeling and preceded me with bowed head. I 
 followed her through halls and rooms, astonished by the practical 
 and effective arrangement of the house, where everything, from 
 the greatest as well as the least, testified to the inventiveness of 
 loving and inspired care. And I had visited in my time many 
 such institutions, for I was interested in the various phases of 
 mental disease. 
 
 " Here are my pets, the angels of the house," said Sister An- 
 gela, with a mild smile, without, however, raising her eyes to 
 mine, as she opened the door of a ward, where, under the super- 
 vision of two novices, there were about ten children, between the
 
 18 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 ages of three and six years. Some were in their beds, some tied in 
 chairs, miserable, unhappy creatures, frail and misformcd of 
 mind as well as of body, whose utter helplessness and repulsive- 
 ness were enough to fill the ordinary person with instinctive aver- 
 sion. 
 
 " How is my little Petcrkin to-day ? " Sister Angela asked, 
 bending over one of the dull-witted little creatures. 
 
 At the sound of her voice a grin spread itself over the form- 
 less face, an inarticulate grunt came from the wet-lipped mouth, 
 and two arms ape-like in length were stretched out to her. Sister 
 Angela patted the child on the head and stroked the sallow cheeks 
 lovingly. But when she turned to leave such a plaintive whim- 
 pering, ending in an animal-like howling, broke forth that I 
 stopped, almost frightened. At the very first sound the Sister 
 had turned and hurried back to the little boy, who was now strik- 
 ing with hands and feet at the novice in charge. Convulsions 
 seemed imminent. But Sister Angela said, soothingly : 
 
 " Be good, my little boy. My little Peterkin does not have to 
 stay here. Sister Angela will take him." 
 
 As she said this she lifted the heavy child and rocked him in 
 her arms. Turning to me apologetically, she said : 
 
 " You will pardon me — " 
 
 " Countess Herschatz," I cried out. 
 
 Now, as she had raised those wonderful brown eyes, I recog- 
 nized her, the brilliant Countess Hermine Herschatz, who a few 
 years before had been the most courted beauty of the capital. 
 
 " Countess Herschatz," I repeated once more, trying to hide 
 my emotion. 
 
 " Oh, please do not call me by that name. Major," the Sister 
 said with a trembling voice. " It is gone and buried with all the 
 rest." 
 
 " But I do not see ; I do not understand — " 
 
 " You do not understand ? " A deep red rose to her cheeks 
 and then yielded to a deadly pallor. " Ah, but you surely know 
 and understand what brought me here. There, there, Peterkin." 
 She soothed the boy again, for he, seeing himself unnoticed for a
 
 A. jiJNGST. 19 
 
 few moments, commenced to whimper once more. " Sister An- 
 gela will play with you in a moment. You and Rosa/' she mo- 
 tioned to a crippled girl, " shall set ^yp the nine-pins and Sister 
 Angela will roll the ball." 
 
 Smilingly, and with the same inimitable grace which had been 
 her characteristic in society, she let the now chuckling child slip 
 into a low seat, while Eosa ordered the nine-pins, and in a few 
 moments the children were playing delightedly. Then she 
 turned to me again. 
 
 " I knew you at once, Major, and that on this holy day, to 
 which I have looked forward so long and with such deep joy, 
 your presence should bring back the past is a drop of bitterness 
 that I feel as part of my deserved punishment, for I never can 
 atone enough for what I did." 
 
 She pointed to the unfortunate children with her slim white 
 hand. " For the life which my frivolity destroyed I try to save 
 as many as possible of these deserted and pitiable beings. For 
 the one soul that my coquetry ruined I try to wake the slumbering 
 soul in these. This is my atonement, my penance. And now let 
 us part. Major. You will find the way to the lower halls without 
 me, or else Sister Walburga may be your guide. To go farther 
 with you now is more than my strength will allow." 
 
 I was too much moved to answer. Without a word I took the 
 hand she held out and turned to leave the room. At the door I 
 paused for one last look at the noble figure bathed in the glow of 
 the noonday sun, the pale and beautiful face, and the elasped 
 hands. The door had hardly closed liehind me before I heard the 
 sound of the soft voice talking to the children and the dishar- 
 monic, gurgling answers, and once more I repeated to myself 
 with bated breath as I had done inside, " Countess Hersehatz." 
 
 I saw her again as I had last seen her, radiant in evening 
 dress, the picture of life and joy, her dance card in one hand, 
 before her an officer bowing low: 
 
 " I am afraid you are mistaken, Baron," she was saying. " The 
 second waltz belongs to Count Okberg ! " 
 
 " Pardon me," said the Baron, his tone growing faintly sharp,
 
 30 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 " the second waltz belongs to me. It was promised to me a week 
 ago at the Austrian Ambassador's — " 
 
 " I do not remember, Baron. My card — " 
 
 " Give mc your card, Countess; I — " 
 
 " How dare you speak like that to Countess Herschatz ! " 
 came the threatening voice of Count Olsberg, as interruption of 
 the little passage between the two foolish young people. 
 
 Two pairs of eyes, dark with anger, poured their resentment 
 into each other for a few moments; then there were sharper 
 words, though so low that the pulsing music of the waltz just be- 
 ginning deadened them, and yet so hard and metallic that I, who 
 stood close, shivered as at the touch of cold metal. Then formal 
 bows on both sides, and the Countess floated off into the waltzing 
 maze with Count Olsberg. Glow of lights and breath of flowers, 
 entrancing sound and motion in the glittering salon, as if never a 
 shadow darkened the earth, and no one guessed that death was 
 sitting with them at the silver-heavy board, and that at the bot- 
 tom of all the harmony was the strident discord of hate. 
 
 The next morning the capital was shaken by an awful rumor. 
 On the Ha sen Haide a duel was said to have been fought at dawn 
 between Count Olsberg of the Guards, and Baron Hosson of the 
 Iluzzars, fifteen paces, pistols. Hubert, Count Olsberg, the only 
 son of his widowed mother, was mortally wounded, and had died 
 a few hours later. 
 
 I do not know who it was that told the outcome of the duel to 
 Countess Hermine. I only heard that she became unconscious 
 from the shock and was prostrated by it for a long time. The 
 following winter I waited in vain to see the star of the past season 
 rise again on the social horizon. The Countess appeared nowhere. 
 If some one happened to speak of the beautiful and brilliant 
 girl, there was a shrug of the shoulders, and it was suggested 
 that it was no wonder the Countess avoided the capital where her 
 coquetry had caused so tragic a happening. The next season she 
 would undoubtedly return for new triumphs. But Countess Her- 
 schatz disappointed both her friends and her enemies, and did not 
 come back the next season, nor the next. Some one said she was
 
 A. JUNG8T. 21 
 
 living in retirement at her brother's country seat in a corner of 
 the province, mourning the defection of Baron Hosson, whom she 
 had secretly loved, and who, after serving the time of his arrest, 
 ignored her altogether. Then even gossip forgot her. The 
 capital, where wave drives wave, lives fast and forgets quickly. 
 About that time I was transferred, and for, a long time even I 
 had not thought of the exciting episode. 
 
 But the threads of our fates are curiously interwoven. Here, 
 in the Westphalian asylum, I had seen again the famous beauty 
 in the habit of a humble religious — she, the tenderly trained, care- 
 fully guarded and protected lady of the great world, as the 
 protector and teacher of children whose bodily and mental weak- 
 nesses must offend the natural sense of refinement daily, hourly, 
 whose sight must be a constant torture. 
 
 And yet, as she appeared to me that morning, at the head of 
 the children whom she was leading to the table of Our Lord, with 
 the light of a love greater even than mother love in her eyes, she 
 seemed more beautiful to me and even more happy as Sister An- 
 gela than ever Countess Hermine Herschatz had been. What the 
 one had done wrong in the thoughtlessness of youth the other was 
 expiating in high and noble penance. 
 
 Touched by the thoughts that rushed upon me, filled with awe 
 of a religion which can thus raise men above themselves, and 
 make even sin a rung in the ladder reaching heavenward, I went 
 slowly through the great passages of the building. At the door 
 of the refectory my amiable traveling companion met me, holding 
 the hand of his little sister lovingly, 
 
 " I would like, Major — but, for gracious sake," he inter- 
 rupted himself, " what has happened to you ? How you look ! " 
 
 I passed my hand over my forehead and said with feeble at- 
 tempt at pleasantry, " I have seen ghosts, no, rather good spirits, 
 whose sight has moved me more than even I myself would have 
 believed. Sister Angela — " 
 
 " Ah, " Emma Forster interrupted, and the lustreless eyes 
 brightened. " You were up with Sister Angela where the sick 
 children are ? "
 
 22 SISTER ANGELA. 
 
 " Yes, yes," I answered the eager little questioner. 
 
 " And did she tell you the sad tale about the little red hen and 
 the cock ? Oh, when Sister Angela tells it to us in the evenings we 
 all have to cry." And even at the thought the child's eyes began 
 to fill with tears. " But it is even nicer," she went on, confidingly 
 coming closer to me, " when Sister Angela tells us of Christmas 
 and of the little Jesus and His dear Mother, and of the Saviour 
 who for love of us — " 
 
 The little girl stopped. She had evidently lost the thread, but 
 after a short and distressed silence she looked up at me so hap- 
 pily, so innocently, and so full of faith, that I felt more con- 
 vinced than ever that the Lord was pleased to take up His abode in 
 this heart, even in spite of the lacking gifts of the intellect* 
 
 " You love Sister Angela very much, do you ? " 
 
 " We love her, oh^ so much, so much ! " And the girl, so shy 
 and limited in words, became talkative in the praise of her beloved 
 teacher and friend. 
 
 Sister Angela and Signora Valdina ! The beginning of their 
 lives had been so much alike, and how different was the conclu- 
 sion to be ! I asked the Superior about the singer, and the an- 
 swer was, " Incurable." 
 
 Shortly after noon I bade farewell to Wellendorf. When I 
 was seated in the wagon and waving good-by to my companion, 
 who remained, and to whom I really owed this singular meeting, 
 I took in once more the high walls, the endless seeming rows of 
 windows, the tower of the church, and the cemetery of the insti- 
 tution climbing up the side of the hill. Up behind those walls 
 Sister Angela worked and atoned, and down there in the ceme- 
 tery she would rest in the shadow of the cross. Strange trans- 
 formations of fate! Wonderful transmutation of a curse into 
 blessing ! 
 
 A blessing, aye, the highest blessing of heaven, the once 
 thoughtless and frivolously wasted life of Countess Hermine 
 Herschatz has become for many, and I myself bless even now the 
 hour in which the railroad accident sent me, instead ©f to Han- 
 over and Mascagni's opera, to Wellendorf and the Insane Hospital.
 
 OTTO VON SCHACHING* 
 
 (Dr. V. M. Otto Denk.) 
 
 Dr. Victor Martin Otto Denk took his pen name " Otto von 
 Schaching " from his native town, Schaching, in Lower Bavaria. 
 He was born on June 23, 1853. After he had received the 
 preparatory education customary in Germany, he went to the 
 University and studied history and philology. After that he spent 
 many years in England, France, Italy, and Spain. He began 
 his literary career at an early age, being but seventeen when
 
 his first article was published. His work entitled, " Der Materialis- 
 mus in der Erziebung und die Revolution," published in 1874, was 
 widely read both by Catholics and Protestants. His real literary 
 reputation, however, begins early in the nineties, when he turned his 
 attention to the writing of tales of village life. In this field he won 
 a pronounced success with his widely read and highly praised novel 
 " Stasi," which appeared in 1891. The critics were unanimous in 
 their acknowledgment of the great importance of this book, and 
 placed its author among the foremost novelists of the present time, 
 " Stasi " was followed in rapid succession by a long list of novels and 
 romances, in which Schaching takes his local color from his native 
 Bavaria, Among these are : " Die Teufelsgretl." " Die Gaister- 
 tonne von Heilsberg," " Bayerntreue." " Waldesrauschen," and many 
 others, in ail these works the critics praise the author's rare art of 
 sstting forth realistically the characters and scenes of his stories. 
 Lately he has experimented with the historical novel, and " Widu- 
 kind, the Saxon Hero,"' shows his gifts in this direction. He has 
 also won for himself an enviable reputation as a writer of works 
 dealing with the history of education and literature. 
 
 Dr. Denk lives in Regensburg and is the editor of the DcuiscJicr 
 HaiisscJiatz, a Catholic Magazine published in that city.
 
 Hfra, 
 
 A Tyeolese Tale of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 BY OTTO VON SCHACHING. 
 
 The pale January sun sent its slanting rays through the low 
 windows of the great farmhouse at Wiedeek, that stood looking 
 down from the free heights of the Volderberg into the Unterinn- 
 thal. The men and women servants of the place were gathered 
 around the big oak table in the living-room, and were just ready 
 to rise from their noonday meal. 
 
 At a side table the farmer sat by himself, and meditatively 
 nibbled at a crisp noodle. He was a big man, of some fifty-odd 
 years, whose sharp-cut features seemed darkened by sullen shad- 
 ows. As his people arose for the customary grace after meals, 
 he, too, stood. The head servant led the prayer, and the others 
 responded. Just as the response chorused through the room, 
 " Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass 
 against us," the door was opened, and a tall, lean man with a 
 pedler's pack on his back came in. He took off his broad-brimmed 
 hat, and joined in the prayers at once. 
 
 " God be with you all here ! " said the newcomer, with that 
 pleasant heartiness that tells of long acquaintance. 
 
 The servants answered each after his own manner, and then 
 went out to their several occupations, only the farmer himself 
 remaining. 
 
 "Well, and how is everything up here?" the pedler began, 
 setting his pack down on a chair. " It is a goodly time since we 
 have seen each other — half a year." 
 
 "H'm, something like that," said the farmer, while his eyes 
 
 85
 
 26 AFRA. 
 
 ran questioningly up and down the pack. "Dost bring some- 
 thing new, Hergottskraemer ?* Where are you from, to-day?" 
 
 " From the valley — from Hall. The road was very bad from 
 Telfels up. Whore is the goodwife? " asked the trader. 
 
 " She has gone to Hall, on a pilgrimage," the farmer grunted. 
 " Woman fancies — let me see what there is in the pack," he 
 added, hurriedly, as if to turn the conversation into other chan- 
 nels. 
 
 The pedler undid the wrappings of unbleached linen which 
 covered his pack. Then he spread a bright array of holy pictures 
 on the table. Among them were a great number of pictures of 
 the Sacred Heart, which were particularly popular since the Tyrol 
 had been put under the special protection of the Sacred Heart of 
 Jesus, in the year of 1796, when the French invasion threatened 
 by way of Italy. Nothing, however, seemed to please the farmer, 
 who looked but hastily and turned up his nose. 
 
 " That will do," he said. " I do not want to see any more." 
 
 " Wait a little," said the trader. " I have something that 
 might please thee. See ! " And he held up at arm's length a 
 beautiful group carved out of pearwood. It represented St. 
 George, high on his horse above the dragon, into whose wide-open 
 mouth his spear was thrust. " Hast ever seen him made so well ? 
 I never did," the pedler said, while his eyes shone with the light of 
 appreciation. 
 
 The farmer cocked his head on one side, and looked at the 
 carved gem which the trader held up before him. The lines in his 
 deeply marked face grew deeper, and his expression became almost 
 evil in its bitterness. He pressed his lips together and turned 
 away. But the trader continued to praise the carving : 
 
 " Just look at the horse. Is it not as though it would come to 
 life every moment? How can any one carve like that? Dost 
 know what it's worth? Just guess." 
 
 The farmer shrugged his shoulders. " H'm, about three 
 gulden." 
 
 •Hergottskraemer, literally translated, " Our Lord's trader." It is the col- 
 loquial term for a seller of sacred pictures, images, and so on.
 
 OTTO VON 8CH ACHING. 27 
 
 Then the trader laughed as if the farmer's answer were the 
 best joke possible. 
 
 " There, one can see what a farmer knows of art." And he 
 placed the carving back on the table. " Let me tell thee, a great 
 gentleman of Vienna has offered fifty golden gulden for it, but 
 the carver said that he would not sell this carving for a hundred." 
 
 " H'm," sneered the farmer, " he must be a fool." 
 
 The trader did not answer at once, then he spoke, in a raised 
 and solemn voice: 
 
 " He must be a fool, eh ? So be it ; for dost know, he is thy 
 own son ? " 
 
 The farmer stood as if struck with palsy, stirring neither hand 
 nor foot, but his eyes glittered ominously. Then he folded his 
 arms, and said, in a strange, hollow-sounding voice : 
 
 " So, that's where the thing is from. And what does the whole 
 farce mean ? " 
 
 " Farce ? There is no farce here, my good man," answered 
 the trader. " Eight days ago I was with Franz, thy son. He 
 gave me this carving to give to his father, because his father's name 
 is George, too, he said, and he asked that his father should kindly 
 take it. That's what he said — what Franz said. And he has sent 
 thee something more, and I brought it right along." And, before 
 the farmer could recover from his astonishment, the trader had 
 gone out of the door. When he came back in a few moments, he 
 was accompanied by a pale young woman, rather tall than short. 
 In her clear-cut features there was a certain distinction. Her blue, 
 inscrutable-looking eyes were in striking yet most fascinating con- 
 trast to her deep black hair, that waved around the high white 
 forehead and fine temples. Her costume was that of the women 
 of the Pusterthal at that time. 
 
 As she entered the room she greeted the farmer in a modest 
 and quiet way, while her eyes were fixed, half-questioningly, half- 
 shyly, upon the owner of Wiedeck. He on his part was so aston- 
 ished at her appearance, that he almost forgot the thanks for her 
 greeting which custom demanded. 
 
 " Whom dost bring me here ? " he asked the trader.
 
 • 28 APkA. 
 
 " Whom do I bring, farmer ? Do not pretend like that. Hast 
 not guessed who it is — Franz's wife ? " 
 
 " Wh — wh — who ? What ? " stammered the farmer, and stared 
 at the young woman's face. 
 
 She, however, stood his gaze without a sign of embarrassment, 
 6nd then she took two or three steps toward him. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, with the same cahn with which she had 
 greeted the master on entering, " I am Afra, thy daughter-in-law. 
 A few days ago, Sarnerquiria, here," she made a gesture toward 
 the pedler, " came to us, and asked my husband had he a message 
 for his father. Sarnerquiria was going into the Unterinnthal and 
 around Hall to trade, and then it might happen that he would come 
 up to the Wiedeck farm, too. Then all at once the thought came 
 to me : * Afra, go along with him, and take Franz's finest piece of 
 art as an offering to father.' Franz himself could not come be- 
 cause he is sick just now. And now, father-in-law, let me not go 
 without peace and forgiveness for Franz and me." 
 
 Her voice shook, tears quivered on her lashes, and her hands 
 timidly clasped the hard right fist of the farmer. But he grabbed 
 his hand away, and turned his back on her. 
 
 " Thou hast made a vain journey," he said, harshly. " With 
 me there is no forgiving. It is thy fault that our son married 
 against our will. Thou didst turn his head. Thou canst tell 
 him that between him and me all is over. So, and now see that 
 thou findest the way he showed," pointing to the picture-seller, 
 " back again. I have finished." 
 
 " Oh, go along, farmer," said the image-seller now, persuad- 
 ingly. " Was it a crime that Franz married Afra against thy 
 will? She is as good as gold. Not an ill word could be said 
 about her. And even if her father has not a stockingful of gold 
 put away like many a farmer, yet all the people respect him in the 
 country around because of his art. Dost not need be ashamed of 
 her for a daughter-in-law. See, just as I came into the room, 
 the people were praying, * Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
 those who — ' " 
 
 " Stop talking stupid stuff. When I want to hear preaching,
 
 OTTO VON 8CH ACHING. 39- 
 
 I can go to church and hear the priest. Do you understand? 
 Rather take this person and go thy way. 'Twill please me better." 
 
 The pedler turned to go, but Afra, despite the farmer's brutal 
 words, began once more : 
 
 " Father-in-law—" 
 
 " Father-in-law ? Father-in-law nothing. Now, I am tired 
 of this. Get out of my sight at once, or my patience will be at an 
 end!" 
 
 In the mean time the pedler had packed up his things, leaving 
 only the St. George group untouched. Now he nodded to Afra 
 as a sign that he was ready to go. She hesitated a moment to 
 see whether she should follow or wait and stay. Then she said, 
 in a trembling voice: 
 
 " Everything has its limits. Thou dost order me out. I go. 
 But the time may come when thou'lt ask my forgiveness. God 
 keep you ! " And she turned quickly away. 
 
 " That's right, Afra. 'Twas a good dressing for the proud 
 old fellow. I am glad." 
 
 The farmer himself remained behind, his face red with anger. 
 Then his gaze fell upon the carving of the St. George which the 
 trader had left. With an oath he took it and raised his arm as 
 if to dash the exquisite bit of work to pieces — anything to satisfy 
 the bitter feeling of revenge that filled him. Then his hand sank 
 back again. If it had been another saint, perhaps even his sense of 
 sacrilege might not have conquered his rage; but his own patron 
 saint ! He placed the group back on the table. 
 
 4: ^ 4: * :4c 
 
 A little way Afra and Sarnerquiria, as was the pedler's name, 
 went along together. Then they parted. The trader went up 
 farther into the hills to sell his wares to the pious peasants, while 
 Afra went down into the valley toward Innsbruck. In that direc- 
 tion, behind the frozen, snow-covered, saw-like points of the 
 Salstein and the Salzberg, was her home. 
 
 It was late in the day, and the sun was hidden behind gray and 
 wintry clouds, when the goodwife of the Wiedeck farm returned 
 from her pilgrimage near Hall, where she had been to lay the griefs
 
 30 AFRA. 
 
 of her mother heart before the Mother of God. Since her son had 
 married the daughter of the poor sculptor down in the Puster- 
 thal, peace had fled from Wiedeck. She herself had forgiven them 
 long since, but the father seemed to get harder every day. The 
 last six months had been beyond all endurance. 
 
 "Art here, Leni? I was beginning to think thou wast not 
 coming back to Wiedeck." Thus the farmer greeted his goodwife. 
 There was a certain sneer in his voice, but the wife, a tall person 
 with a sharp-cut chin that showed a mind of her own, was not in 
 the right mood for such a greeting. 
 
 " 'Twould have been more sensible to have stayed away," she 
 said, in a hurt tone, laying her rosary and prayer-book on the 
 window-shelf, and taking off her head-scarf. " I go on a pil- 
 grimage to pray that there may be an end of this trouble, and 
 while I am gone thou dost spoil everything again with thy ungodly 
 temper. I believe that it was Our Lady herself who sent Afra 
 into our house to-day that there might be peace here once more." 
 
 The farmer looked at her in utter astonishment, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 " Yes, just look at me. I have heard all about thy senseless 
 temper. Sarnerquiria met me, and told me everything." 
 
 " Then I do not have to tell thee again," the farmer said, 
 dryly, and left the room to escape the gathering storm. But before 
 he could close the door he heard his wife's plaint : 
 
 " If it goes on like this, I shall leave, too." 
 
 But he had heard this for weeks, once at least every day. So 
 he was used to it. The next few days brought no betterment in 
 the relationship of the couple, rather the contrary. The goodwife 
 could not banish from her mind the reflection of how well every- 
 thing would have been if her husband had been kind to Afra, 
 of whom, after all, she had heard nothing but what was good. 
 
 Then it happened one day that a religious from Hall, a Fran- 
 ciscan Father, stopped at the Wiedeck farm. He had been up in 
 the mountains visiting a sick relative. 
 
 " And is everything well with all here ? " he asked of the good- 
 wife.
 
 OTTO VON SCH ACHING. 31 
 
 " Oh, no, Father," she answered, with a sigh, " It is not well 
 at all. Sit down, your reverence, or else the sleep will be carried 
 out of the room." And she wiped the top of a chair with a corner 
 of her apron, though there was not a speck of dust anywhere. In 
 the mean time the farmer entered, too, and greeted the priest 
 respectfully. 
 
 " Now, then, my good friend," began the priest, addressing the 
 wife, " what is the trouble ? According to your pleasant face, you 
 are most healthy." 
 
 The goodwife stroked her shoulder-cloth nervously. 
 
 " Ah, your reverence, the trouble with us is altogether differ- 
 ent. There is no living here since Franz — " Then her voice 
 broke. 
 
 " Did Franz die ? " asked Father Cyprian, kindly. 
 
 " Die ! " said the farmer, now. " No ; he did not die. But as 
 good as that. He married, and he married against our wishes. 
 And that is trouble enough." 
 
 " So, so," said Father Cyprian, then, slowly. " I have not 
 heard anything of this, at all. How did it happen, anyway ? " 
 
 " H'm," began the farmer, " it is soon told. You must know, 
 your reverence, that even as a boy Franz had a turn for whittling 
 and carving figures. It was wonderful how natural he could make 
 everything. And, as it often happens hereabouts, a strange gentle- 
 man came up here in the summer-time and went by our house, one 
 day. Of course, Franz was sitting out on the bench and whit- 
 tling. The gentleman stopped and looked at the boy, and then he 
 said to me, * There's something in that lad. He will be an artist 
 some day, if he is sent to study.' But I did not think much about 
 it, for these city gentlemen can talk a lot in a lifetime without 
 saying much. But the boy begged and teased after that to be sent 
 away. I for my part did not want to help him along in such non- 
 sense, but my wife began to beg and plague, too, and at last, like 
 a good-natured stupid, I gave way as I always do, and sent Franz to 
 St. Lorenzen to learn with old Nuwal. He was recommended to 
 me as a very good sculptor and teacher. Franz was sixteen years 
 old then. He did learn something worth while, that is true.
 
 32 AFRA. 
 
 But now comes the main part. After three years the boy came 
 home. It wasn't long before I saw that something was wrong. 
 And then, to make the story short, I found that he had just lost 
 his head about Afra, the old sculptor's daughter. He wanted to 
 marry her, and he wouldn't listen to even a word about any one 
 else. There, what do you think, your reverence? All my talk 
 and all my warnings were wasted on that boy. It was just as if 
 he were bewitched. Afterwhilc, the whole thing seemed too silly 
 to me, and then I said to him : ' Franz, either thou dost obey me, 
 or thou canst take bag and baggage and go out of my house.' 
 And what do you think that stubborn-headed lad did ? He went 
 away into Italy, down to Eome, until he was of age. And then, 
 a half a year ago, he came back, and married that girl. Now he 
 is living in Lorenzen as a carver and sculptor, and into my house 
 he can not come." 
 
 " H'm," said Father Cyprian, and nodded his head reflectively, 
 " this is indeed a serious story. But see now, farmer, Franz is, 
 after all, your own flesh and blood ; and, even if he was wanting in 
 obedience to his parents, you must not close the door of your house 
 against him. That is unchristian — " 
 
 " That's what I am always saying," the goodwife hastened to 
 put in. 
 
 " And, then, what is there about his wife that you do not like 
 her? Is she a good woman? If she is, I do not know why you 
 should not acknowledge her as your daughter-in-law." 
 
 " Dost hear, George ? Do I not always say so ? " the goodwife 
 said to her husband. " Your reverence, now listen to me." 
 
 And then she began and told her side of the story. For a long 
 time she, too, was angry with the lad, but now she had forgiven 
 him and his wife. Then she began to tell of Afra's visit, and of 
 the pedler's praises of the young woman. Then she suddenly left 
 the room, coming back in a few moments with an article that she 
 showed the guest, with the words : 
 
 " See, your reverence ! This is something that Franz carved ! 
 What do you think of it?" 
 
 Father Cyprian arose from his chair and walked to the win-
 
 OTTO VON SCHACHING. 83 
 
 dow, so as to have a better light on the carved St. George group. 
 For a few moments he was silent, and then his features lit up with 
 enthusiasm. Then suddenly he called out : " Wonderful ! Beauti- 
 ful ! Why, this is a work of art ! Do you know what, farmer ? 
 Your son is an artist, whom Our Lord has blessed with a great gift, 
 and you may well be proud of him. 'Twould be a sin and a shame 
 to hold him in scorn any longer." 
 
 " That's M^hat I always say," the goodwife put in again, and 
 then she began to sob with mingled grief and delight. 
 
 The farmer stood as if turned to stone, and said never a word, 
 but just the same his eyes brightened, as if with a secret pleasure, 
 at the praise which Father Cyprian gave his son's work. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," Father Cyprian said, then, taking up the 
 group once more. " Let me take this carving along with me, and 
 show it to our Father Superior. We need several large statues 
 for our church, and Franz shall make them for us. I will get him 
 the commission. But, farmer, you must give up these bickerings. 
 Your son holds out his hands, asking forgiveness and peace. And, 
 then, it is your duty to put aside hate and bitterness. Think of 
 what Our Lord Jesus Christ said to Peter, when asked how many 
 times we should forgive our fellow men: 'Seventy times seven.* 
 Think, also, of the parable of the master and the servants, and 
 how the master treated the servant who was hard toward his fellow- 
 servant who was in his debt. And now, God keep you all ! He 
 will find the way to set everything right." 
 
 Then, slipping the carving under his cloak, the son of St. 
 Francis went on his way. 
 
 >!: N< iH 4< 4i 
 
 It was toward the end of March. A wondrous light and life 
 flooded the young earth, for Spring had assumed her sway over 
 the land of Tyrol, and the warm breath of the south wind had 
 melted the snow and ice from the mountain sides and set free the 
 streams in the valleys. Fresh, soft greens and many-hued blooms 
 filled the eye with delight and the nostrils with sweetness. 
 
 In front of a little brown-shingled house in St. Lorenzen, in 
 the lovely Pusterthal, a finch sang its gay song hidden in the
 
 34 AFRA. 
 
 white and pink fragrance of a blossom-covered apple-tree. His 
 song along with the golden sunshine streamed into the open win- 
 dow of a modest little room. Here, among finished and half- 
 finished figures and pieces of carving and new designs, a young 
 man, chisel in hand, was working away at a block, bringing out 
 more and more distinctly at every stroke the outlines of a human 
 figure. The young artist was Franz Trauner, the son of the owner 
 of the Wiedeck farm. His young wife Afra sat near him, her 
 fine face a little paler than usual. Lines of sorrow and sadness 
 were about her mouth. Her hands, though resting idly in her lap, 
 held some knitting. She sighed deeply, and her husband paused 
 in his work and turned to her. 
 
 " Console thyself, Afra," he said, and gently stroked her sof ( 
 hair. " Death must come to us all, and we can do nothing but 
 accept it." 
 
 " That is true ; but father might perhaps have lived longer, 
 if — " She stopped, overcome by her emotions, and Franz under- 
 stood what she had meant to say. 
 
 Eight days before, the old artist Nuwal, her father and Franz's 
 teacher, had died. He had not been well for a long time, but, 
 after the return of his daughter from the Wiedeck farm, he had 
 failed rapidly. Secret grief and worry about the possible future 
 of his only child filled his heart and sapped the little strength 
 left him. A single gleam of pleasure had come through the 
 gloom of the small remaining margin of his life, in the honor- 
 able and flattering commission given to his pupil and son-in- 
 law by the Franciscans of Hall for the statues of the Twelve 
 Apostles. 
 
 And Franz's work-loving hand was even now busy at the execu- 
 tion of the commission. The first figure of the Chief of the 
 Apostles was growing out of the block, under his touch. He was 
 just about to begin his interrupted work again, when the face of 
 Sarnerquiria, the picture-pedler, whose house was right near the 
 Nuwal house, appeared at the window. 
 
 " Trauner," he said, " hast heard the news ? " 
 
 "What news? " asked Franz, raising his curly head.
 
 OTTO VON 8CHACHING. 85 
 
 " To-morrow the militia of Lorenzen are going out against the 
 enemy, who is before Schabs even now. Brother-heart, let the 
 French take care ! My rifle is in order already." 
 
 With that he vanished. 
 
 Franz chiseled away calmly, talking with his wife about the 
 course of events the while. Since the 24th of March of that 
 year a mighty gathering of fighters had filled the valleys of the 
 Tyrol. The militia was preparing to defend the land against the 
 French troops threatening from the South. From the hills 
 the signal-fires flamed, and in the villages the alarm-bells were 
 calling the able-bodied men to the defense. And from all sides 
 the brave Tyrolese responded to the summons. Clergymen, 
 noblemen, merchants, citizens, peasants, and laborers, armed with 
 every kind of weapon obtainable, gathered in the meeting-places. 
 Even the women forgot the traditional weakness of their sex, and 
 went out heroically to help the fatherland. An implicit faith in 
 the covenant which the people of Tyrol had made with the Sacred 
 Heart of Jesus in the previous year filled the souls of all, and gave 
 courage to the weak and daring to the strong. 
 
 It was on the 2d of April, on the so-called Black, or Passion, 
 Sunday. Near Spinges, where the vine-covered lower heights rise 
 to the points of Eisak, the yeomanry attacked the French under 
 General Joubert. From nine o'clock in the morning until sunset 
 the bloody and unequal fray raged around the houses, over the 
 meads, and in the woods of Spinges. The rifles, scythes, and 
 pitchforks of the Tyrolese peasants made sad havoc among the 
 enemy, though the French greatly outnumbered the natives. But 
 the defenders, too, suffered many and terrible losses. Here at one 
 side lay a loyal hero, the Tyrolese Winkelried, the scythemaker 
 Keinisch of Volders. He was pierced with eleven bayonet wounds, 
 and around him lay fifteen French soldiers, whom the great fighter 
 had slain with his mighty bludgeon before he fell himself. Not a 
 hundred feet away lay another brave man, his breast pierced with 
 French lead. Many a one knew and loved him in the Tyrolese 
 land. Over at the forest edge the white and green flag of the 
 company, with which he had gone forth merrily to the fight the
 
 36 AFRA. 
 
 day before, was gaily fluttering in the wind. But he lay there, 
 cold and dead, the picture and image pedler, Sarnerquiria. 
 
 Franz Trauner could not bring himself to stay away when the 
 fight for home and country was being waged near him. ^loreover, 
 his hand was as quick with the rifle as with the chisel. To be sure, 
 Afra was mortally frightened when he spoke of going. But all her 
 entreaties to induce him to change his mind were in vain. Then 
 she said to him, " Well, then, if you go, I go too." And the brave 
 young woman kept her word. As the fight progressed her courage 
 and calmness seemed to increase rather than to leave her. For 
 hours she had stood beside her husband, behind a protecting boul- 
 der, loading his two rifles with practised hand, he firing one while 
 she loaded the other. Many a shot came hissing over the two or 
 rebounded from the rocks as a little message from the enemy, but 
 so far neither had suffered any harm. 
 
 Franz had just taken the loaded rifle out of Afra's hand. His 
 sharp eyes were trying to pierce the thick powder-smoke that hung 
 over the enemy's ditches. In the mean time Afra was preparing 
 the second rifle. She poured powder out of the horn into the 
 barrel, put the ball and wad on top, and rammed the whole down 
 with the rod. While thus occupied, her chance gaze ran along the 
 edge of the forest. Her features stiffened in sudden fright, her 
 eyes opened wide, and her whole body shook. 
 
 " Franz, Franz ! " she called, shrilly. " Look there ! Look, 
 look ! Come quick ! Yes, yes, it is he ! " 
 
 And even while she was saying these words she, scorning the 
 danger, ran out into the open field. There stood a Tyrolese peasant 
 in the costume of the Unterinnthal. The poor man was hard put 
 against three French grenadiers, who were making for him with 
 their bayonets. To be sure, he disabled and knocked down one 
 with a thundering blow of his rifle-butt. For that, however, the 
 other two knocked him down. With the strength of despair, he 
 grabbed the bayonet that one of them set against his breast, and 
 tried to keep the murderous steel out of his body. But the other's 
 bayonet was ready to do the work alone, and even then the Tyro- 
 lese felt its point piercing his heavy coat. Life seemed but a
 
 OTTO VON SCH ACHING. 37 
 
 matter of moments, wlien a shot rang out right at hand, and one 
 of the soldiers fell. 
 
 The death of his two companions maddened the remaining 
 grenadier. His flaming eye sought the new opponent, and beheld 
 a woman threatening him with the butt of her raised rifle. Like 
 lightning his saber flashed out of its sheath, and, with an oath at 
 the " canaille," he sprang toward her, and made a plunge at her 
 side with his weapon. Just as he struck her another shot rang 
 out, and he, too, fell. For Franz had paid home swiftly the injury 
 to his brave wife. 
 
 All these things had happened so rapidly that Franz hardly 
 knew what it all meant. Only now did his glance fall upon the 
 Unterinnthaler, who was slowly gathering himself from the ground 
 and getting up. His face was black with powder and perspira- 
 tion. Nevertheless, Franz recognized him, with a sort of glad 
 fear: 
 
 " Heavens, father, art hurt ? " 
 
 " Yes, that I am ; but 'tis a trifle. First let us look after Af ra. 
 Me later." 
 
 Franz examined his wife's wound. Fortunately it was not 
 severe. Father and son raised the unconscious young woman, and 
 carried her to a near-by farmhouse, whose white outlines were seen 
 through the trees. 
 
 " Father," Franz related on the way, " 'twas Af ra saw thee first. 
 As soon as she did, she ran with the rifle, and before I really 
 knew what she wanted. I didn't think that thou, too, wast in the 
 fight." 
 
 " As if a Trauner could stay at home at such a time ! " said the 
 old man, in answer. " Art not here, too, Franz ? " he asked. 
 
 That was all that passed between the two, but it was enough 
 to bring peace with it. 
 
 When Afra recovered after her long unconsciousness, she was 
 astonished to find herself in a bed and in care of tender hands. 
 Franz and his father stood at her bedside. Every trace of hard- 
 ness had passed from the farmer's face. His lips were silent, but 
 their trembling showed the deep emotion with which he was strug-
 
 38 AFRA. 
 
 gling. Suddenly, as if following a swift impnlse, he took hold 
 of his daughter-in-law's hand. 
 
 "Afra," he said, unsteadily, "I thank thee. Thou'lt forgive 
 me now ? " 
 
 She replied with a happy smile and a silent pressure of her 
 hand. And strange to say, at this a singular tenderness came over 
 the old man, and the tears began rolling down his cheeks. After- 
 ward he wondered how he could have been so " soft." It was 
 hardly his usual way. 
 
 Six months later Franz was working away at the Twelve Apos- 
 tles in a little cottage adjoining the Wiedeck farmhouse. He and 
 his Afra were living there so as to be near their parents.
 
 KARL DOMANia 
 
 Karl Domanig was born April 3, 1851. at Sterzing in the 
 Tyrol. His grandfather was a friend of Andreas Hofer, the Tyrolese 
 patriot leader, and Domanig's family was one of the best known 
 in the country. When he was ten years old he was sent to the 
 Preparatory School of the Benedictines at Fiecht. After that he 
 went to the Schools of Brixen. Salzburg and Meran and the 
 Universities of Innsbruck and Strassburg. In Rome, where he 
 studied for two years at the Collegium Romanum, he took the
 
 degree of Doctor of Philosophy. After his return from Rome, he 
 devoted himself to philology and the study of early German. He 
 took up particularly Wolfram von Eschenbach's " Parzival,"' on 
 which he wrote several treatises. The Austrian Minister of 
 Education awarded him a stipend for traveling expenses, in 1880, 
 which enabled him to spend some time in Italy, devoted to the study 
 of the history of art. After that he removed to Vienna, being 
 employed first as tutor to the children of Philip, Duke of 
 Wiirtemberg, and later in the same capacity, to the sons of 
 Archduke Carl Ludwig. In 1884 he entered as a volunteer in the 
 Museum of Coins and Antiquities, and in 1887, after he had 
 married, received the appointment of custodian at the Royal 
 Museum of Art. He has written many technical articles as a 
 result of the opportunities for obtaining material in the Museum. 
 
 He made his first entrance into poetic literature by a trilogy 
 dealing with the Tyrolese struggle for liberty. '• It is in the spirit 
 of Shakespeare, simple yet profound, pious yet strong, humble yet 
 great, and, above all things, true and human — " such was the 
 criticism of Father Kreiten in the Stimmen aiis Maria-Laach in 
 1897. He also wrote the drama, " Der Gutsverkauf." and the 
 poetic tale, " Der Abt von Fiecht." The latter, an eaition de luxe, 
 has gone into three editions and has been translated into the 
 Norwegian. His novel, " Die Fremden. ' has also gone into a 
 second edition. Moreover, he has written a collection of little 
 stories dealing altogether with his native country. 
 
 Domanig is the representative of the Tyrolese in modern German 
 literature. He is enthusiastically devoted to his country, and also 
 thoroughly Catholic in spirit. In his writings he manages to find 
 the difficult mean between cosmopolitan and narrowly local tend- 
 encies, as well as to keep his head between the romantic and 
 naturalistic schools. His realism is clean and robust, and his 
 idealism healthful and free from affectation.
 
 Ube posttlton ot Scboenbera. 
 
 BY KARL DOMANIG. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHICH TELLS OF GEORGE^ THE POSTILION, AND HOW HE PLANNED 
 TO GET MARRIED. 
 
 I HAD a dear old aunt, more than ninety years old, and 
 mourned by all who knew her when she passed away. She was 
 the widow of the master of the post at Schoenberg in the great 
 house that now stands so lonely and deserted. 
 
 What a contrast between the past and the present! 
 
 In her time the masters of the post had twenty and more 
 horses in their stables, kept four to six postilions — or stage-coach 
 drivers — and were the familiars of princes and great people. 
 Kings and emperors ate and lodged for the night in the post inns. 
 My aunt knew all of the older princes of the ruling house of 
 Austria personally. What wonder, then, that she could tell great 
 tales of the old days? And then, too, she told her stories very 
 entertainingly, so that one did not weary listening to her. 
 
 "Tell me," I said to her one day, "the story of the postilion. 
 You did tell it to me once, but it is long ago and I should like 
 to hear it again." 
 
 She did not remember at once which one I meant, for pos- 
 tilions she had known many, and of each one she could tell 
 some little tale. 
 
 "He who came up from the Unterinn Valley, and stayed with 
 you for seven years, and then made such a to-do about getting 
 married " 
 
 "Oh, about him? That was George. He must have been 
 
 41
 
 42 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 with us about nine years and was one of the best and most faith- 
 ful postilions we ever had." 
 
 "Where was he really from ?" 
 
 "From the Inn Valley — I do not just remember what village. 
 In the first years he was with us he used to tell me over and 
 over again of his home, how much more beautiful everything 
 was there, and how much pleasanter the people were. So that 
 at last I was a little vexed, and said to him : 'Indeed, what sur- 
 prises me is that you stay here at all as long as there is so little 
 to please you here.' But then he was a poor lad, and had no rela- 
 tives except his old father whom he helped to support. And so 
 he had to make the best of us and of his place with us." 
 
 "And that probably wasn't the worst that could have hap- 
 pened him," I remarked. "For the retainers of your house 
 were well taken care of, I'm sure. But what then, aunt? How 
 was it about the marriage?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. That may have been about thirty years ago. 
 George had been with us going on the ninth year. Coming down 
 stairs one morning I saw him standing at the post-master's door, 
 bending to the keyhole, and listening for some one to say 'Come 
 in.' 'Looking for the post-master?' I asked. 'He isn't here — he 
 is gone for the day. What do you want?' 
 
 "Oh, I could manage about it some other day too," George 
 said, but remained standing where he was. He was a tall, power- 
 ful fellow, and I a mere midget beside him. 
 
 " 'Indeed, do you need money ?' I asked. 
 
 " 'No,' he said, but he did not go. Then I noticed for the 
 first time that he was in gala attire and wondered why — on a 
 plain work-day, and no distinguished guests in the house. 
 
 " 'You know,' he went on, somewhat embarrassed, 'I really 
 could tell it to you just as well — But then we must be alone. Mis- 
 tress.' 
 
 " 'Hm, a secret, is it ?' and I unlocked the door of the post- 
 master's ofTice. And George took off his hat and scratched his 
 ears and hesitated.
 
 KARL DOMANia. 48 
 
 "'Well, what is it anyway?' I asked again. 
 
 " *I would like to get married.' 
 
 " 'Married — you ? But on what ?' 
 
 " 'Oh, I have saved a nice sum. Mistress.' 
 
 " 'You have ? Yes, you are likely to have a great pile.' 
 
 " 'Oho/ George chuckled. 'Now just guess.' 
 
 " 'Oh, well,' I said, 'probably you have something worth while.' 
 For, you know, a postilion in those days could make a good deal 
 through tips, but the trouble with most of them was that they 
 spent a good deal too. But George, as I said, was always saving 
 and if he spent anything extra it was for his father. He sent 
 him a few gulden every month. 
 
 " 'But guess,' George went on. 
 
 " 'Altogether you probably have a few thousand.' 
 
 " 'Yes ? Just wait, and raise it a little. Seven thousand and 
 some hundred I have, Mistress.' 
 
 " 'Why, George, you are doing better than the master ! To 
 save seven thousand gulden in nine years — that's not a little 
 money, and everybody wouldn't believe you.' 
 
 " 'But I have had good luck too, Mistress. And you under- 
 stand what with the tips and the wages and putting it all at 
 interest, it soon grows a good deal.' 
 
 " 'Yes, yes,' I said, 'and the best capital, and the one that has 
 probably brought you the most blessing is what you have done 
 for your father.' 
 
 " 'It is true I've always been fond of him. But then that 
 is my duty too.' 
 
 " ' 'Tis your duty and it is fine of you to do your duty. 
 "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thou mayest be long- 
 lived upon the land which the Lord thy God will give thee." ' 
 
 "George brought our rambling talk back to the subject again 
 by saying that he needed God's blessing, especially now when he 
 meant to marry. For marriage was, after all, the most important 
 step in life. With a good wife a man could be happy all his 
 life, but with a bad one just as unhappy.
 
 44 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERO. 
 
 " 'Yes,' I paid, 'and I suppose you have your eye on a particu- 
 lar one?' 
 
 " 'True,' he answered. 
 
 " 'And is she good ?' 
 
 " 'Good as gold, Mistress, so I have heard.' 
 
 " 'That is the first thing to be thought of, George. Has she 
 some means of her own?' 
 
 " 'She has not only some, but a good deal.' 
 
 " 'Well, what are you worrying about then ?' 
 
 " 'Yes — but — but, you know — the question would be whether 
 we really are suited to each other.' 
 
 "Just think! Now he wanted me to tell him whether they 
 were suited to each other or not. It almost made me laugh ! 
 
 " 'In heaven's name,' I asked, 'have you not noticed yourself 
 whether you like each other or not?' 
 
 " 'Like each other ? I took her up on the seat with me once 
 on the return coach, and then I talked to her several times after 
 that, but nothing more.' And now he told me too who the maid 
 was, and how he first came to think of her. 
 
 "I knew her very well. It was Vincentia — Cenz, as she was 
 called, who lived up in the Matrei forest. She had been down 
 with us when we were in the old posthouse to learn to cook. She 
 was there almost a whole year ; then her father died, and she had 
 to go home. She was the only child and lived with her mother 
 and aunt on the farm, part of which they rented. The farm be- 
 longed to them free of incumbrance and the girl was as good 
 as could be. She wouldn't have a certain young man, Luis 
 Kloben, though there were some people who said that it was a 
 wonder he would have her. For you know he was young, hand- 
 some, and rich. But there was a good deal of talk about his 
 morals and it was true that he spent most of the time lounging 
 around the public-house. That's why Cenz refused him. Yes, 
 the girl was all right and George was to be congratulated, and I 
 did congratulate him too. 
 
 " 'If I only had her !' he said. 
 
 " Well, you must see about it,' I said encouragingly.
 
 KARL DOMANIO. 46 
 
 " 'I was on my way there,' he went on, 'and that's why I have 
 my good uniform on. But 1 just wanted lo ask — What do you 
 think now, Mistress? Do you think that we're suited to each 
 other?' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MATTER HAS A LITTLE HITCH. 
 
 "George went, taking the coach that was to be brought to 
 Steinaeh, and stopped to see Cenz on his way back. He made 
 his proposal to her or her mother; I really do not remember if 
 she happened to be at home herself. In about a fortnight she 
 came down and asked that she might see George in my presence. 
 The post-master and her mother were there too. It was settled 
 that George was to stay with us until after Easter, and then they 
 were to be married up on the farm. 
 
 "Even then I noticed that while George was very pleasant 
 to his bride-to-be, there yet seemed to be something like indeci- 
 sion and melancholy in his manner. I watched him a long 
 time while they sat together and talked and brought them some 
 wine up to the little reception room myself. Of course I did 
 not let him know I noticed it, but whenever I had a chance after- 
 wards I would stay to George: 'You are getting a good wife. 
 Cenz is handy and agreeable and you can't be thankful enough.' 
 Just the same we hated to lose him, for, as the post-master often 
 said, such postilions were scarce. 
 
 "One day, it was about three weeks before Easter Sunday, 
 George came and asked for several days off, because he wanted 
 to go to see his father and his friends, as he had not been at 
 home for nine years. At that time there was not much travel, 
 and the post-master gave him permission to go. But George 
 stayed longer than he agreed. We were all distressed, because we 
 could not understand it in such a punctual fellow as George 
 usually was. I said something must surely have happened him 
 or he would be here. When he did come at last he looked trou- 
 bled and worn. For this reason the post-master did not say a 
 word to him about his staying away so long — neither did I. I
 
 46 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 only asked him if he was not welL He muttered an answer, 
 whether yes or no, I could not understand. And when I brought 
 him some camomile tea he said : 'Nothing will help me ; just let 
 me go.' 
 
 "And I let him go, though I kept an eye on him all the time, 
 for the man began to seem doubtful to me. lie went about 
 moping, and when it was his turn to take the coach he never 
 blew his horn any more, though he could blow it as none other 
 could. At last I said to the post-master: 'I do not understand 
 George at all. I think I will talk to him a little.' 
 
 "So one morning after breakfast I managed to catch him 
 alone, and asked him how he was getting along. He did not 
 answer. 
 
 " 'Something must be wrong with you, George,' I said. 
 'Since you went to the valley you are very strange. Are you 
 sick? Tell me honestly what is wrong.' 
 
 "At this George looked out of the window, and drummed on 
 the pane and left me standing there without a word. 
 
 " 'Go on, George,' I said, 'what sort of a manner is this ? 
 Look at me. Why, see here, if Cenz knew about this she would 
 be grieved.' And then I took hold of his hand and said that I 
 meant well with him, and for him to confide in me 
 
 " 'I don't like her any more, if 3'ou 7nust know it,' he said 
 then, all of sudden. 'It's all over, and I am going now, right 
 away, to tell her so myself.' 
 
 " 'But, George, how did this come and why ?' I was very 
 much astonished. He started to go out but I restrained him, 
 saying commandingly : 'Now you stay here, George. I have a 
 word to say in this matter, too. You're not out of our service 
 yet, and as long as you are with us, I will not permit that you 
 should act in such an unchristian manner. Yes, yes, just look 
 at me. I tell you that's no way to treat a decent girl, to desert 
 her and ruin her chances after everyone knows that you have been 
 engaged to her.' 
 
 "I talked harshly in my indignation and he became very red. 
 Then I softened a little and asked him to sit down.
 
 KARL DOMANIG. 47 
 
 " *If I have wronged you, I did not mean to, George, but 
 tell me what is the matter,' and I urged him to sit down. As 
 he did so his hat fell out of his hand, and I picked it up and 
 when I looked up again the tears were rolling down his cheeks. 
 Then I did not know what to do, and so was silent. He too, said 
 nothing, but wiped his eyes impatiently and started to leave once 
 more. 
 
 "By this time I thought he had met some other girl in the 
 valley and that is why he did not want Cenz any more, for the 
 girls there are very taking. But when I remembered what a 
 good and faithful girl Cenz really was, I said angrily: 'Go, 
 George, just go on; but there is no blessing on faithlessness. 
 The girl that stole you away from Cenz will hardly bring you 
 luck.' 
 
 "Then George turned around and looked squarely at me. 
 
 " 'Mistress/ he said, 'there is no other girl that I like better, 
 but before I'd take Cenz, I'd go to my grave.' 
 
 " But for heaven's sake, what is this ? Has she done some- 
 thing wrong?' 
 
 " 'Nothing wrong at all. But I don't like her any more. I 
 can't take her, Mistress — we're not suited to each other.' 
 
 "He brought it out in gasps, as if it were very hard for him 
 to say it. And after he had said it he sat down again and then 
 I sat down too, beside him, and at last he began to talk, though 
 I had to coax him by asking many questions first. 
 
 " 'No, Mistress, don't bother asking me questions. You'll 
 not guess it anyway. I really don't know how it is myself. 
 For truly there is no other and never was, except Margarethe, 
 God give her peace. I can never forget her, though it is nine 
 years now since death took her. As for Cenz — she is good enough 
 as far as that goes, and what has come between us, it puzzles me 
 to tell. When I went away from here that time with the wagon 
 toward Innsbruck, it was a rainy evening and the narrow valley 
 seemed narrower than ever. It was just stifling up on the Isel 
 Mountain. However, it stopped raining, and below lay Inns- 
 bruck with its thousands of lights and I breathed deeply again.
 
 48 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 I was so glad to be back in the Inn Valley once more. Then the 
 next day I let Joseph take the wagon baek as the post-master 
 said that he should, and went on a-foot. I stayed over night 
 in liothholz and the next day I was at home. It was so nice 
 the very first day and I felt better the farther I went, and when 
 at last I M-alked through the village the houses all seemed to 
 me as if they were new painted and decorated. When I saw 
 father again and all my friends and heard them talk the way 
 they talk at home, then something came over me — oh, I cannot 
 tell you how or what, but it seemed that I must stay right there 
 and no place else, and I could like no one but the people at home, 
 and all of these together. Eeally even in the graveyard I was 
 happier than here. And then it began to seem to me that Schoen- 
 berg and the Matrei forest were lonesome and dreary, and Cenz 
 came into my mind, every word that she had spoken and I was 
 sick of it all. And since then I'd rather be out of the world than 
 go and marry Cenz and live up there with her. It is so, and I 
 can't help it. I have prayed and it did no good. No, God 
 knows, Mistress, better a pain once than a pain forever, and she 
 herself would only be unhappy with me.' 
 
 "That's the way George talked, and what could you do with 
 the homesick child, the great, overgrown baby? I tried to tell 
 him that a man's home is rather where his calling and the Lord 
 send him than where he happens to be born. But to preach 
 in a case like that, what good is it? George just hung his head 
 and paid no attention to me. 
 
 "The same morning it was his turn to take the stage to 
 Steinach. I felt rather queer as I looked after him driving along 
 and never a sound from the horn. Then I did not see him 
 again until the next day. He did not come back until late at 
 night when we all were asleep and what happened in the mean- 
 time I know only as he told me later and partly too from the 
 inn-keeper up in Matrei.
 
 KARL DOMANI&. 40 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THERE IS A TURN OF THE TABLES. 
 
 "George in coming back stopped at Matrei, where an old 
 acquaintance of his was living, a former stage-driver, and asked 
 him to take the coach home. He himself had business in Matrei. 
 The other man laughed a little and agreed to do so. 
 
 "And then George went into the inn. But he did not want 
 to drink, much less did he want company. He just wanted to sit 
 by himself and wait, for he dreaded the visit to his bride. 
 
 "He felt sorry for her at heart, anyway. Such a good, ami- 
 able girl as she was and now he was going to say to her, '1 do not 
 want you.' But marry her ? No ! They were not suited to each 
 other and both of them would only be unhappy for life. 
 
 "And so he sat all alone at the farthest table, for the general 
 company was too boisterous and gay for him. And in the mean- 
 time he tried to think over and over again what he should say to 
 Cenz, and whether there was no way out of it at all. But he 
 could think of none. The maid asked him 'What is wrong with 
 you to-day, George?' He did not answer. 
 
 "The guests at the other table finally saw this, and began 
 to tease, which he did not seem to notice. Luis Kloben alone 
 said nothing, but sat and watched him sharply. Kloben had been 
 in the inn since noon and was very red in the face by this time. 
 At last he got up and taking his glass went and sat down at the 
 table with George. 
 
 " 'What is the matter with you to-day, George ?' he asked, 
 in a friendly tone, though usually he could not bear him, and 
 when George turned his back on him he leaned over and whis- 
 pered in his ear: 'Cenz, isn't it? Did she give it to you too? 
 But then the girls, — that's their way. Well, here's to your 
 health, we're brethren.' 
 
 "He screamed out the last, laughing as if he were gone fool- 
 ish. George looked at him from head to foot, rose, pushed him 
 away and went out, forgetting to pay. 
 
 "How he got to the farm he never could tell, but all at
 
 50 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 once he stood in front of the house and could not go in. It was 
 as if he were spell-bound. Then the little dog ran out, a snappy, 
 ugly-tempered little brute, and flew at his leggings. George paid 
 no attention to him and the dog sprang up higher and tore at 
 his breeches. Then George chased him and opened the door. 
 
 "Cenz herself was sewing by the window, and behind the stove 
 were her mother and the old aunt t^pinning. As George entered 
 the mother rose quickly, and taking her wheel went into the ad- 
 joining chamber. George greeted them all, but only the aunt 
 responded. Cenz herself barely looked up from her sewing long 
 enough to see who it was, and then she bent her head again to 
 hide the deep red that flashed over her face and neck. The little 
 dog kept up his growling a few seconds longer, then crouched 
 behind the stove and there was utter silence. 
 
 "George sat down on the bench opposite Cenz, resting his 
 hand on the torn knee. The aunt kept turning her wheel. 
 
 "After a while George looked at his betrothed. The setting 
 sun was shining on her thick blonde hair, giving it a golden 
 shimmer, and her eyes fixed on her busy needle seemed full 
 and clear. Then he said timidly: 'Cenz, don't I get even a 
 greeting to-day?' 
 
 "Cenz did not look up. *I think that instead of greeting each 
 other we should be saying Good-by, God be with you,' she said. 
 
 " 'Do you think so ?' George asked. The tears came into the 
 girl's eyes and she covered her face with her hands and leaned her 
 head against the window. 
 
 "In the meantime the aunt had stopped spinning and was 
 watching the two young people. At last she burst out: 'Well, 
 then, George, it seems it is I who must tell you that everything 
 is over as far as Cenz is concerned. She doesn't want you any 
 more.' 
 
 "George looked at her and then at Cenz, and did not know 
 what had happened him. Had he not come to ask his release — 
 and now? How did she anticipate it? It seemed to him that 
 things were whirling around him, and he sat staring straight 
 ahead without a word. Then the aunt began again:
 
 KARL DOMANia. 61 
 
 " 'We did think you were a good fellow, but if things are as 
 they say and you want to put the old folks out of the house 
 as soon as you get into it, then it is better for us not to let 
 you get in. Do you understand? And with a fellow like that, 
 Cenz doesn't want to have anything to do. Now you know 
 it.' 
 
 " 'But George did not understand even yet, and he only asked* 
 dazedly: 'What?' 
 
 " 'What ? Do you want to deny it ?' the aunt went on, get- 
 ting angry now. 'Haven't we witnesses? Cenz will not havfi 
 any man who does not honor her mother. She could have had 
 many others, and you needn't think so much of yourself because 
 of your money.' 
 
 "Then the door opened and the mother came out of the 
 chamber. 'Yes,' she said to George, 'You will see that the bless- 
 ing of God is not on you if you treat old people that way. You 
 will find it out some day when your own children turn you out 
 of the house when you can't work any more. They will treat 
 you just as you'd like to treat me now.' 
 
 "Then George began to see a glimmer of light. He rose and 
 said: 'This is strange talk, mother. Whoever knows my father 
 can ask him whether I have done my duty by him or not. And 
 I never meant to treat you diflFerently, mother. Whoever says 
 so is a liar.' 
 
 "'Liar?' screamed the aunt. 'Kow just look at the rowdy!' 
 She fixed her eyes on the torn knee of his breeches. 'Do you 
 think we don't know what you've been saying?' 
 
 "'What did I say? What is it? Out with it now— I want 
 to know !' said George. 
 
 " 'You don't need to know anything,' screamed the aunt 
 again. 'It's enough if we know.' And the mother said: 'Go 
 on. We took you for a saint long enough. You will not de- 
 ceive us any more.' 
 
 "And hearing the women talk and scold, the little dog came 
 out again from behind the stove and began barking. George 
 gtpod in the midst of them, anger and annoyance struggling for
 
 52 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 mastery. At last Cenz came over to him and said : 'Luis Kloben 
 told mother.' 
 
 " 'But what did he tell your mother, Cenz ?' George asked 
 almost tearfully. 
 
 " 'Oh, George, that you said to the landlord down at the inn 
 and to him that as soon as we're married mother would have to 
 get out of the house,' and sobbing bitterly she went back to the 
 window. 
 
 "The two old women began to abuse him again and the dog 
 barked harder than ever. Then George gave him a kick that 
 sent him into a corner and shaking his finger threateningl}^, he 
 said, 'Luis Kloben and the landlord? So that's it? I'll bring 
 both of them up here this very day, and see what they have to 
 say,' and with that he stormed out of the house. 
 
 "When the women saw George so angry they were silent and 
 embarrassed for a while. Then Cenz began gently to take his 
 part, saying that she never did believe anything that Luis Kloben 
 said. But her mother said : 'He told me in confidence,' and the 
 aunt pointed to the landlord as chief witness. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 IN WHICH GEORGE TRIES TO CLEAR HIMSELF AND MIXES UP 
 
 THINGS. 
 
 "When George got back to the inn it was dark, and the 
 landlord was just reciting the Eosary with his household and 
 servants. 
 
 "George went up to him without waiting a second : 'What 
 did you say that I said?' he cried threateningly. 
 
 "The landlord, still kneeling, answered : 'Just let me finish 
 the Eosary. There is time enough to talk afterwards.' 
 
 "But the prayerful temper was gone. All were looking at 
 George, and the maids were giggling. George muttered some- 
 thing and went into the public ropm. The landlord wept. 911 pray- 
 ing.
 
 KARL DOMANIG. 53 
 
 "Luis was still sitting all alone at a table, and George went 
 for him at once. Just what happened he never liked to tell 
 afterwards. But when the landlord and the servants came in — 
 whether they had finished praying, or whether the noise brought 
 them — George had thrown Luis to the ground and was choking 
 him, saying between gasps, 'Liar, scoundrel, will you own up 
 that you lied?' 
 
 "When they were separated the landlord asked George what 
 he meant by coming into his house and fighting. He couldn't 
 understand it in him. Then George turned on the landlord, 
 and said that he too had lied about him, and acted like wild. It 
 was a long time before the man could make anything out of it. 
 Then he said, 'George, you are right. I never heard you say any- 
 thing like that.' 
 
 " 'Do you hear that — ^you " and he started for Luis again, 
 
 but the landlord held George, and Luis slipped behind the table. 
 
 " 'Will you apologize now ?' But Luis refused, though the 
 landlord urged him also. 
 
 " 'Do you know, Luis,' the landlord said then, 'every man 
 has a right to believe you or not, and most men will know 
 how much stock to take in your talk, but you must not call on 
 me as a witness. I never heard George say anything like that 
 and I don't believe he would either.' 
 
 "When George saw that he could do nothing more with Luis 
 he urged the landlord to go to Cenz and clear him. 
 
 " 'Very well, I'll gladly do that.' 
 
 " 'All right,' said George, 'We'll go.' 
 
 "'Now? At this time of the night? I'll not go out there 
 now. There's no such hurry either. I have to go in that direc- 
 tion to-morrow after a calf, and then I'll tell her.' 
 
 "Then George got angry again and the landlord finally told 
 him that he'd better go home if he could not listen to reason 
 in any form, 
 
 "One can imagine that it was an affair of which George did 
 not care to talk afterwards. When he was gone the landlord 
 sent Kloben home and forbade him ever coming back. And for
 
 54 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 that matter when the story was told there were few who believed 
 anything Luis Kloben had to say. 
 
 "Early the next morning George was waiting for me at the 
 foot of the stairs. 'Well,' I said, 'what's the matter so early 
 in the morning?' I held my little lantern up in front of his 
 face and he looked so pale and disturbed that I did not say any- 
 thing about his coming in late. And then he began to tell me 
 in bits. I could make nothing out of it all at first except that he 
 Manted me to go to see the girl and tell her that what they said 
 about him was not true. 
 
 "In the meantime the post-master came along and George 
 turned to him, asking him to speak to her for him. 
 
 " 'I can do nothing there,' the postmaster said. 'It's the 
 landlord's business to set it straight, and if Cenz really wants 
 you she will believe you herself.' 
 
 " 'But the people ? To have all the people thinking of one 
 like that!' 
 
 " 'All the people ? Marry Cenz and treat her mother right, 
 and the people will have nothing to say.' Then the post-master 
 left us. 
 
 "After the post-master was gone, I lingered a little so as to 
 have a chance to talk to him. When he began to beg again I 
 said : 'I wonder that you are so anxious now to save your honor, 
 while it seemed little to you to leave the girl, or what might be 
 said of Jier/ 
 
 " 'Do you too think me a scamp ?' he asked. 
 
 " 'I don't that, but is it worth while to get into such a passion 
 on account of a scamp? Go on, George; how would it be if in- 
 stead of all this fuss you were to go to see Cenz, and tell her all 
 about it and set things straight with lior yourself.' 
 
 " 'She'll never believe me,' he said despondently. 
 
 "'Do you think not? Oh, I am sure that at tlie very first 
 word you say she will believe you and forgive you and everything 
 will.be well. I know her.' He did not answer and then I got 
 angry and said : 'What is the use of worrying about you ? 
 Haven't you feet and a tongue? It's your affair, not mine.'
 
 KARL DOMANIG. 65 
 
 And then I left him, though I did say an Our Father for him, 
 for I still had hopes. 
 
 "And truly, about eight o'clock I saw George taking the road 
 
 up toward Cenz's home. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH THINGS END WELL. 
 
 "This was on Tuesday of Holy Week, and then of course 
 whoever has a little time goes to church. Cenz and her mother 
 had gone down to the village to church, and there was no one at 
 home but the old aunt. But she received George much more 
 pleasantly than she had the day before. 
 
 " 'One can't believe that Luis Kloben — we didn't really be- 
 lieve what he said after you told us that it was not so yesterday, 
 Cenz herself never believed it. She said you were innocent.' 
 
 "George sat down and said nothing. When the dog began 
 to bark again the aunt shut him up. 
 
 "I believe he tore your breeches?' she said and then she got 
 her needle and thread and sat down in front of George and hastily 
 patched up the torn knee. 
 
 "As they sat there, George on the bench, and the old aunt 
 on the floor in front of him, Cenz and her mother came in. 
 
 " 'Oh, George,' said Cenz, 'now we know everything. The 
 landlord told us that you are innocent. You are not angry at 
 us, are you, George? It is true, we did listen to his story too 
 readily.' 
 
 "And then the mother told the aunt how the landlord had 
 waited for her after Mass and explained everything. The aunt 
 hastily finished her sewing, saying, 'You see, everything comes to 
 light in time.' 
 
 "But George sat there silent and thoughtful. At last he 
 held out his hand to Cenz, and she closed both hers over it and 
 leaned against him. Then he threw his arms around her neck 
 and the thought that he did not want her any more never even
 
 66 THE POSTILION OF SCHOENBERG. 
 
 entered his mind. 'I do not know, how it was, but it suddenly 
 seemed to me as if I had but one friend in all the world, and 
 that was Cenz. I would not have given her up for anything 
 or any one,' " he said to me afterwards. 
 
 "And now you know the story," said my aunt. 
 
 "Yes, but what happened later?" I asked. "Did George's 
 doubts come back and was he sorry?" 
 
 "Oh, no, never. They were the happiest couple possible. 
 And he often told me so afterwards. He became tax collector 
 and had to travel around a great deal. He always stopped with 
 us when he passed by, and then he would tell, me how he grew 
 to love and value Cenz more every day. Sometimes he would 
 take a horn and sit out in the garden and blow for an hour. 
 He would not get tired blowing, and no more would the post- 
 master, God rest his soul, tire listening to him. 
 
 "To be sure his happiness did not last very long. They had 
 a little daughter and were living peacefully and pleasantly. The 
 old father was with him, too, but his son went to the grave be- 
 fore him. George was caught in a storm and got pneumonia. 
 Eight days later he was dead. 
 
 "But I remember to this day one time when he told me of 
 Cenz and of the little girl. He did not seem as genial as other 
 times, but rather thoughtful and sad, particularly when ho re- 
 ferred to the old story of his homesickness. 'I did think I would 
 have to live there because it was my home. But Cenz has made 
 the strange place home for mo, if one may call it that. For wo 
 are not truly at home anywhere.' He said this so sadly that I 
 tried to coax him out of it. 'No/ he said, *it is true. The hard- 
 est thing can not be to die, when we know that it is better where 
 we are going. Life is much harder, Mistress.' 
 
 "And indeed I have often thought of these words — ^you are 
 still young, my dear, and have got to learn that we are all only 
 strangers in this world."
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ, 
 
 EvERiLDA VON PuTZ was born November 21, 1843, in Munich. 
 Her parents were i^ippolyte von Klenze, the Royal Bavarian 
 Chamberlain, and Emily von Klenze, whose maiden name was 
 Farmer. The mother, as will be seen from the nam.e, was an 
 Englishwoman. The writer's grandfather was the noted architect, 
 Leo von Klenze, a friend, in his day, of Schinkel and Humboldt 
 and the confidant of King Louis 1. of Bavaria. The upheavals of 
 the famous year 1848, and various journeys to her mother's native
 
 country, made a deep impression on the child. Her parentage, 
 associations, and training made her familiar from her earliest 
 childhood with German, French and English, and when she was 
 but nine years old she wrote her firsi fairy tale. Her first novel, 
 " Gn'ifin Eva," was published in 1870, and was soon followed by 
 two others, " Mutter und Tochter," and " Der Letzte Schuss." 
 
 On November 10, 1873, she was married to Captain Karl von 
 Putz. Her happiness, however, was soon to end in the tragedy 
 of her life. Her husband died, just a year to the day after the 
 marriage, leaving her with a young son, born on the 7th of October. 
 After her bereavement, Frau von Piitz returned to Munich, where 
 she is still living with her son and an unmarried sister. The great 
 grief which came upon her and her somewhat delicate health 
 prevented her from doing as much literary work as her unusual 
 abilities and opportunities might have led one to expect. Never- 
 theless, she has published a number of novels and Tyrolese village 
 tales in which the women, especially, are portrayed faithfully and 
 touchingly Her novels are : " Mutter und Sohn,"' '■ Maria Angela," 
 "Christine's Gluck," " Aschenbrodl," '■ Mein Johannes,' " Ver- 
 sohnt," "Der Liebe Lohn" and "Der Perlenschmuck." Many of her 
 stories, besides those that are collected in book form, have 
 appeared in periodicals. Frau von Piitz has also written two 
 historical tales for the young, " Die Tochter des Marquis " and 
 " Von der Pike auf," and travel sketches, but considering the extent 
 of her travels, her output of descriptive writing is very modest.
 
 Sacrifice. 
 
 A Tyrolese Village Tale. 
 BY EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 
 
 The moon had risen behind the mountains and shone brightly 
 down into the valley. In its clear light the ice-topped mountains 
 shimmered above the snows that clung to them lower down. 
 
 A delicious quiet filled forest and field, broken only by the 
 rhythmic murmur of the mountain stream, singing in a thousand 
 varying melodies its old yet ever new song. 
 
 Nearly every light in the village was out. In the window of 
 one house, standing a little back from the road, the anxious house- 
 wife, however, had placed a lamp, which sent out its feebly guiding 
 ray. 
 
 On the bench outside of the house a twelve-year-old girl was 
 sitting — the only child of the house. The cool wind disheveled 
 her blond hair and blew it over her face, so that she pushed it 
 back every now and then impatiently. The child was listening 
 anxiously. " Now I believe I hear something," she whispered ex- 
 citedly to a dark-robed woman who stood in the doorway, and then 
 both listened again. 
 
 From away off came the sound of a harsh voice singing in dis- 
 cordant snatches. 
 
 " It's he," burst out the child, as she sprang to her feet. " You 
 go to bed, mother dear; he's terrible to-night — I can tell it." 
 
 " No, Louise," answered the woman in a tired tone. " I am 
 used to the misery and I must stay. Who knows what might 
 happen if I didn't. IMany a man like him has set fire to himself 
 and to the house, not knowing what he was doing. But you get 
 
 59
 
 60 SACRIFICE. 
 
 into your chamber. Quick, quick ! " she urged, as she saw a 
 reeling figure approach the garden fence. 
 
 She kissed the little girl hastily and pushed her into the house 
 toward the stairs. Then she went to meet the drunken man and 
 took hold of his arm. 
 
 There was a look of scorn in her still handsome face as she 
 tried to get him to let go the fence, to which he was clinging. 
 
 " Are you here, Anna ? " he muttered, thickly. " That's sen- 
 sible of you — no, it isn't sensible — it is some of your cursed spy- 
 ing. I know you, Anna. You're a hypocrite — that's what you 
 are, and you don't want a poor man to have any fun — not a 
 thing — not a thing — would you leave me — I know you — " 
 
 Silently she led the staggering man into the house. Here, 
 as if filled with disgust, she suddenly let go of him, and he reeled 
 backward and fell on to the bench. 
 
 " What's come over you that you treat me like that ? " he 
 cried, angrily, and struck at her with his clenched fist. But she 
 dodged deftly. 
 
 " Do you want to go to bed, or do you want to sit there all 
 night ? " she asked, and her black eyes glittered in her pale face. 
 
 " I want to go to bed," he hiccoughed, defiantly. Again the 
 woman supported him, helped him into the chamber, and into 
 his bed. In a moment he was breathing loudly and sunken into 
 a drunken stupor. The woman stood by the bed and looked down 
 at him with burning eyes. 
 
 " And that is the man I loved once ! I put down my hands 
 for him to walk on, and this is the thanks for it all." She pulled 
 up her sleeves and looked at the blue and black marks on her 
 arms. " He beats me like a dog. Oh, if I were only dead and 
 buried," she sobbed. 
 
 " No, mother," a small voice spoke up, and two soft arms 
 crept around the neck of the unhappy woman. " You must not 
 die ; what would I do without you ? " 
 
 Anna pressed her child to her bosom and covered the little 
 face with kisses. " You, dear, you are my only consolation, my 
 dear, dear darling. No, I will not die as long as you need me.
 
 EVERILDA VON PtJTZ. 61 
 
 Our Lord iritij give mo the strength to live on through all this 
 misery." 
 
 " He will help, mother," whispered Louise, and gently stroked 
 her mother's thin cheeks. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " she asked bitterly. " I believe He has 
 long since forgotten me. I have prayed and pleaded so long, but 
 it has done no good." 
 
 " mother," answered the child, with a quivering voice, as 
 she leaned her face against that of her desolate mother, " we must 
 not say that." 
 
 " You are right, my darling. And I do not mean it just that 
 way either. But sometimes I feel as though I could stand it no 
 longer, and I must get up and run away over the hills — ^just to 
 get away, away, where I can no longer hear the brawls, the noise." 
 
 " I'll go with you, mother," said the girl decidedly. Then 
 suddenly she stopped, and added slowly : " No ; that will not do. 
 Who would take care of poor father then ? He would be all alone." 
 
 " Then both of us must stay, I suppose," the mother answered, 
 with a wan smile. " And now hurry and get to bed. It is very 
 late. Good night, my good little girl." 
 
 Louise ran up the stairs to her little bedroom, and the woman 
 turned to her own bed, which stood beside her husband's. 
 
 The lamp had gone out. But the moonlight lay silver and 
 brilliant on the chamber floor and fell on the repulsive figure on 
 the bed. With open mouth, swollen and red of face, thick and 
 labored of breath, thus was he sleeping whom Anna had once 
 promised to love, honor, and obey. She saw him still as he had 
 been when he first won her love — a bright, pleasant young man 
 with a handsome face — and now, heaven, what a change ! 
 
 She shuddered. With unconquerable aversion she turned from 
 him, took a pillow and some bed clothes and carried them into the 
 sitting-room on to the long house-bench. Before she lay down 
 she turned her weary eyes once more upon the crucifix hanging in 
 the corner of the room : " My God, wilt Thou never hear me ? " 
 she whispered, and then buried her face in her pillow and sobbed 
 herself to sleep.
 
 62 SACRIFICE. 
 
 Up in her little room Louise was still standing at her window. 
 Her young heart was very heavy. She did not know for whom she 
 was most sorry — for her father, or for her mother, or even for 
 herself. To have to be ashamed of one's father — could anything 
 be more bitter? 
 
 She thought and thought. " What is to be done ? How can 
 I help ? " Her eyes followed the moonbeams skyward. " God 
 alone can help," she whispered. " But we, too, must do our part 
 in gratitude for His grace." 
 
 Louise rested her arms meditatively on the sill. What was it 
 the priest said recently of the sacrifices which the saints made in 
 order to save souls? How they prayed and fasted, and endured 
 pain and suffering in order to save souls and do penance for the 
 sins of others. " ' Who wants to save a soul, must suffer for it,' 
 that's M^hat he said," she whispered. 
 
 The child rested her little head on both hands. " Dear God," 
 she said, softly, " put a good thought into my mind now." And 
 the longer she reflected the more quiet she became. A smile lit up 
 her lovely little face as she turned it toward heaven, to all the won- 
 derful light and glory that illuminated heaven and earth. 
 
 " I just know what I'll do. Do Thou bless me, dear God, so 
 that I shall do it right and do it with all my might. Now I made 
 a rime. I never did that before. I'm sure that that's a good 
 sign," and full of her new thought she lay down with a happy 
 smile and was soon sound asleep. 
 
 The next day began as many another had. Louise and her 
 mother had long since had breakfast and been at work in the 
 garden, the stable, and the house when the man himself appeared, 
 irritable and weary. His wife brought him his coffee, took the 
 bread out of the table drawer, and together with a knife, silently 
 laid it down beside him — without a word or a look to him. 
 
 " Huh," grumbled her husband, testily, after the first mouth- 
 ful. " What kind of a brew is this? " 
 
 " It has been waiting for two hours," answered his wife, 
 sharply. " And, of course, it can't be as good as it was." 
 
 " Quit your talking," said Florian, roughly. " ^ly head aches."
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 63 
 
 " I believe that," said Anna, contemptuously over lier shoulder 
 as she turned to go away. " The condition in which you came 
 home last night again is a sin and a shame." 
 
 " Get out of here,'' the man screamed at her. And then he 
 leaned his head against the wall and tried to collect his thoughts. 
 
 What was it he wanted to do this morning? Yes, he remem- 
 bered — but what could a fellow do with such a head ? " Anna is 
 right," he thought, heavily. " Yesterday was almost too much for 
 me. To-day I'll stay home. Maybe," he added, for safety's sake. 
 
 Noon came, and found the man still sitting in the same place. 
 He had slept some more and felt better. Louise set the table, 
 chattering gaily. She told her father how many eggs she had 
 found hidden in the straw, that the rosebuds were nearly ready 
 to burst, and what she was going to do in the garden this afternoon. 
 
 " You're a busy girl," said her father, and a pleased smile 
 came into his face as he watched her flushed little cheeks. " You're 
 always glad when you can find something to do, isn't it so ? " 
 
 He was a good, industrious man in ordinary life. It was 
 only drink that made such a brute of him. The day after he was 
 always very sorry, but yet he was too weak to resist the evil spell of 
 the inn. 
 
 He had loved Anna very much. She was from Southern Tyrol 
 — dark, with wavy black hair and brilliant black eyes. Her emo- 
 tions were deep and vivid, while he was rather phlegmatic and easy- 
 going. He could not see why she could not forget what he had 
 done the day before, when he tried to make up the next day, and 
 why she should consume herself in silent bitterness. 
 
 Having found his own good humor again he would have liked 
 a pleasant chat with his wife now. But she was cold and distant. 
 Louise was, as always, amiable, patient, and kind. Never an ugly 
 look or a scornful smile from her. The little one, he thought, 
 could understand that even a good man may sometimes take a 
 glass too much. 
 
 Sometimes ? Even that would be bad enough — but every day ? 
 As it was unpleasant to give an account of himself at this point 
 Florian passed it over as lightly as possible.
 
 64 SACRIFICE. 
 
 Anna brought in the huge bowl filled with kraut and noodles 
 and pork, and put it on the table. It was the favorite dish, and the 
 father began to eat heartily and soon was in a genial mood. Anna, 
 too, took her share, but Louise refused everything save a piece of 
 bread and a little water. 
 
 Her parents looked at her in astonishment. But Louise said 
 that that was all she wanted. 
 
 Each went to his particular work after the noon-day dinner, 
 and the day closed as had most others — Florian went to the inn and 
 came home in a bad way. Louise, up in her little chamber, heard 
 blows and curses down stairs, and her heart was full of pain. How 
 good her father used to be, how hard he used to work ! And now 
 bad company had brought him to this. The devil of drink had 
 taken hold of him. He did not do his work, and everything was 
 going to ruin on the place, for no matter how hard Louise and her 
 mother might work, the strength of a man was lacking on the 
 little farm. 
 
 When the family was at dinner the next day Louise refused 
 everything again except bread and water. 
 
 " What is the matter, child ? " the mother asked, anxiously. 
 " See how pale you are. Are you sick ? " 
 
 " No, mother, do not worry yourself. Nothing is wrong with 
 me." 
 
 " What nonsense is this ? " her father exclaimed, angrily. " If 
 you are well, eat." 
 
 " I may not, father." 
 
 " Is that so ? I'd like to know why not ? Who is forbidding 
 you ? " the man asked, sarcastically. 
 
 Then the child rose and stood in front of her father. Fearless 
 and unshadowed her blue eyes looked at him. 
 
 " I may not," she said, in a low^ voice, " because I have prom- 
 ised our dear Lord that as long as you come home at night — you 
 know how, father — and swear, and make my poor mother cry, I 
 am going to eat nothing but bread and water. I want to suffer, 
 so God will not punish you." 
 
 The silence of death was in the room. Anna covered her face
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 65 
 
 with both hands. Florian looked fixedly down in front of him 
 upon the table. His face became dark red, and then he suddenly 
 threw down his spoon, rose, and left the house. 
 
 Louise looked after him through the window. Then she ran 
 back to her mother, and threw her arms around her neck. " He 
 has the rake," she cried, " he is going to make hay." And not 
 only that, but Florian stayed at home that evening, too. 
 
 His little daughter, who was most hungry by this time, ate 
 heartily, and half ashamed, half regretfully, Florian watched her 
 slyly. 
 
 What, his poor child meant to go hungry like a beggar on his 
 account ? That must not be. Her health, in the end, perhaps, her 
 life, would be on his conscience. And what would the house be 
 without the sweet smile and the young voice of his little girl ? 
 
 And how she did try now to please her father, to entertain 
 him, telling him all sorts of things that happened in school, giv- 
 ing him riddles to guess, playing games with him, and so on. 
 Florian was often highly amused, and even the fine, severe face 
 of his wife softened into an occasional smile. 
 
 A week passed like this in peace and pleasantness, when, one 
 unhappy evening, after supper, one of Florian's public-house 
 friends came in. 
 
 " God be with you here ! " he called out, and lifted his shabby 
 hat. Anna acknowledged the greeting with a barely noticeable nod, 
 helped Louise clear the table, and then went into the kitchen with 
 Louise to wash the dishes. 
 
 " She likes me so well that she runs away from me," said the 
 newcomer, jeeringly. " Looks rather grouty though. What is 
 the matter with you, Flori? Is it true that your wife will not 
 give you a cent and hides the door key from you ? I just stopped 
 in to ask if you did not want to go along. The men are all wait- 
 ing for you. The landlord has received some new wine from 
 Hungary — a good one, a better I do not believe you ever tasted. 
 What do you say? Will you come? Or maybe your boss won't 
 permit you ? " 
 
 " I don't have to ask anybody's permission/' answered Florian,
 
 66 SACRIFICE. 
 
 angrily. " I think I am still master of my own house. But for 
 that matter it would be her way to make me do the minding." 
 
 The Uvo in the kitchen listened anxiously. They heard 
 Florian's voice in the hull, then the outer door slammed, and he 
 was gone. 
 
 " Oh, mother," the child called out in a trembling voice, and 
 began to cry. " Are there really people so bad that they try to 
 make others bad too ? " 
 
 " There are plenty such devils in human form, and they take 
 away every hope one has," said the mother, gloomily. 
 
 Heavy black clouds had in the meantime come up. Torn by 
 lightning they hung over the mountains. The thunder rolled 
 and rolled, given back in unending echoes. Loud and near, then 
 losing itself in the distance. The rain poured down in streams, 
 the roads became pools, and the gutters waterfalls. 
 
 Louise crouched between the woodpile and the house, her 
 eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the blackness in front of her. From 
 time to time the lightning glared and the road was visible for a 
 moment; then the darkness fell again, almost like a tangible 
 curtain, and impenetrable darkness covered everything be- 
 fore the child. 
 
 " Louise, Louise, where are you ? " her mother called anxiously. 
 
 " Here I am. All nice and dry," answered the child. " I am 
 watching to see if father is coming. Please, mother, put the lamp 
 back into the window ! " and when that was done and the mother 
 wanted the child to come in, she begged to stay where she was. 
 " Poor father will be wet to the skin ; don't you think so, mother ?" 
 
 " Serves him right," thought her mother, but aloud she only 
 said coldly : " Maybe so." 
 
 It was very late at night when the heavy step of the drunken 
 man came up the walk. Under his rain-soaked hat, pressed down 
 over his forehead, the eyes looked sullen and ugly. 
 
 The downpour of rain had sobered Flori just enough to put 
 him into the worst possible mood. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he bawled, when he saw the 
 two waiting for him. " Can a man never have a bit of peace on
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 67 
 
 account of you ? Do you have to mix into everything that isn't 
 your business ? Get out, get away with you, I don't need you. I 
 guess you," and he turned to Anna, " are having your laugh now 
 because the flood of water almost carried me off." 
 
 " It's your own fault," the woman answered, shrugging her 
 shoulders. " Why did you go down to the public house again ? " 
 
 Furious at this answer, Florian lurched toward her. " Be 
 still," he roared at her, and lifted his hand to strike her. But 
 with a plaintive cry the child threw herself between them to pro- 
 tect her mother, and, receiving the blow hard in the face, she fell 
 to the ground — unconscious. 
 
 " For God's sake," cried Florian, suddenly sobered as he bent 
 down over the unconscious child. But with a wild gesture his 
 wife pushed him back. 
 
 " You are not worthy to touch her," she hissed at him, and 
 picking up the girl in her strong arms she carried her up the stairs. 
 
 Florian stood motionless with horror. What had he done? 
 What if the child should die ? With a groan he sank on his knees, 
 and raising his hand before the crucifix, he solemnly vowed never, 
 never again to yield to the temptation of drink. 
 
 Then he listened strainedly for sounds from above. Through 
 the board floor there came to him the sound of faint weeping, and 
 after a while he heard a weak little voice speak. That was Louise. 
 " God be praised, she is still living," he said. 
 
 After a little while Anna came down to the kitchen to get some 
 water, and Flori tiptoed up to her. 
 
 " Anna," he said, timidly, " how is she ? " 
 
 She looked at him with glowing, forbidding eyes, from head to 
 foot, and then turned her back on him and left him standing there. 
 
 That was a long, sad night, and Flori had plenty of time for 
 reflection, for remorse, and for good resolutions. 
 
 When day dawned he could stand it no longer. In his bare 
 feet he crept up to Louise's chamber. On account of the heat the 
 door was half open. In the gray light Flori saw his wife lying 
 on the bed, fully dressed, holding the sleeping child in her arms. 
 A great weight fell from the heart of the watcher. No music on
 
 68 SACRIFICE. 
 
 earth could have been ])l('asanter to liim than the gentle breathing 
 oi" the two sleepers. Florian liinisell', exhausted by the emotions 
 of the night, then fell asleep, and did not wake till nearly noon. 
 At first he did not remember what had happened, but suddenly it 
 all came over him, and ho felt a sort of horror of himself. 
 
 Then he heard Louise's voice in the living-room. " He is still 
 sleeping soundly, mother, but when he gets up I'll go up to my 
 chamber, shouldn't I ? " 
 
 " No," said Anna's voice, unyieldingly. " You'll stay here." 
 
 '^ Mother, please let me go. I wouldn't like to have father 
 see me." 
 
 " You heard what I said," said the mother, 
 
 "Is the poor little thing afraid of me?" the man listening 
 thought to himself. " I will show her that in all her life she 
 never need be afraid of me again." Then he dressed himself 
 quickly, and hesitatingly WTut out into the living-room. 
 
 The storm had spent itself. Only a few light clouds still 
 hung around the mountain tops. The sunshine came pleasantly 
 through the windows, and where the little red curtains were drawn 
 it lay upon the floor in rosy patches. 
 
 In the alcove at the table laid for the noon-day meal his wife 
 and child were sitting. The little one had Just filled the soup- 
 plates for her parents, but her own remained empty. 
 
 " Good day, father," came her cheerful greeting. " Did you 
 sleep well ? Sit down here with us now or else your soup will get 
 cold." 
 
 Slowly Florian sat down. " How are you, Louise ? " he asked 
 awkwardly. " I am very sorry that I struck you yesterday as I 
 did. Did it hurt you ? " 
 
 " Better hurt me than mother," the child answered in a low 
 voice, and Florian dropped his head shamefacedly. 
 
 He would have liked to ask his wife's forgiveness, too, but she 
 sat there without a word, without even a look of her great black 
 eyes for him, cold and distant. All his courage left him, and a 
 certain sullen defiance took its place. 
 
 But Louise, too, pleasant as her voice sounded, avoided meet-
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 69 
 
 ing his eyes. She chattered of all sorts of things, but kept her 
 head turned away so that barely her profile was in view. And 
 her plate remained empty. All she had in her hand was a little 
 piece of black bread, from which she broke bits, at which she 
 nibbled. 
 
 Florian no longer heard her words — the poor child was going 
 hungry again on his account. " That God may not punish me," 
 was his sole thought. 
 
 " Louise," he said at last, in a broken voice, " come here to 
 me." 
 
 She startled visibly and hesitated. 
 
 The man rose from the table and went and sat down on the 
 bench against the wall. " Louise, come here to me," he repeated, 
 gently. 
 
 Obediently the child rose and came toward him slowly, care- 
 fully hiding the right side of her face with her hand. 
 
 " Have you a toothache ? " 
 
 " No, father, my cheek is only sw^ollen." 
 
 Florian took her hand away. The whole side of her face was 
 swollen and the eye blue and black. 
 
 The wife rose too, and stood very straight, looking question- 
 ingly, almost threateningly, at her husband. But he saw nothing 
 but the pitifully disfigured face of the child before him. 
 
 " For heaven's sake — my child — did I — did I — do that ? " he 
 stammered. 
 
 " Father," the girl cried out, and laid her head upon his 
 shoulder. " I am glad to suffer this, too, for you." 
 
 Great sobs shook Florian. " Forgive me, poor child — forgive 
 me ! It shall never happen again, I promise you. And Anna, you 
 forgive me too ? " He stretched out his hand toward her. She 
 would have liked to have pushed it away, but was ashamed to do 
 so before her child, who was smiling happily at her now. 
 
 So Anna laid her cold fingers in her husband's right hand. 
 He closed his hand over hers tenderly, saying, " An evil spirit 
 has held me. Help me pray now, that I may be different here- 
 after."
 
 70 SACRIFICE. 
 
 And he vras different. He worked for two, as if to make up 
 for what he had neglected. Storms of temptation still assailed 
 him, but he fought through them manfully. Louise would have 
 been very happy now if it had not been for her mother's attitude. 
 It was as if all the love which the ardent-tempered woman had 
 had for her husband had been spent. The pain of his brutal 
 treatment of her had been too deep — she could not forget it and 
 did not want to forgive it. 
 
 Once Louise put her arm around her mother's neck, " Mother, 
 can't you love father a little bit," she whispered. " He is so 
 good now." 
 
 Then Anna pushed the girl away roughly as she never had 
 before. " What I do does not concern you," she said sharply, and 
 Louise did not dare to put the question again. 
 
 Florian himself often looked pleadingly at his wife, but she 
 turned away as if he were not on earth. 
 
 :ff H: :i: Us ^ 
 
 A year had passed. Everything on the little farm was in 
 fine condition. Florian had remained steadfast and become a 
 model in every way. And yet all was not well with him. He 
 often looked faint and pale and sutfered constantly from peculiar 
 pains in his tongue, which made it hard for him to eat or to talk. 
 
 At last, after trying in vain the quack remedies of a peasant 
 doctor, he went to a regular physician. This man advised him to 
 go to Innsbruck to the hospital at once, and so urgent was he 
 that Florian set out the next morning early. An hour's walk, 
 three hours on the train, and then he w^ould be at the end of his 
 journey. 
 
 Anna did not close an eye that night. And yet when her hus- 
 band held out his hand for the parting she only said, " Good-by. 
 I hope you will be well soon." 
 
 Her husband smiled sadly and turned to go, accompanied by 
 Louise, who insisted on walking part of the way with him. 
 
 Anna stood at the door a while and looked after them. She 
 was sorry that she had been so heartless — was not llie poor fellow 
 on his way to the hospital. Suddenly a great fear came over
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 71 
 
 her: How many there were who never came back from the 
 hospital. If something should happen to Florian — if she should 
 not see him again ! 
 
 Ah ! — she had not thought of that. With a deep sigh she ran 
 down the steps after the two. They were a long way down the 
 road. But one more word she must have, and give him in return 
 a sign of love to cheer him on his hard journey. For he was her 
 husband after all, and the father of her child. 
 
 She waved her kerchief, and tried to call, but the sound stuck 
 in her throat, and the two went on and on. 
 
 Now they stood still and Florian stooped and kissed the child 
 again and again. The little one turned to go back, slowly stopping 
 and waving her hand every few steps, while he, too, stopped to 
 wave in answer. 
 
 Then came a loud, shrill cry : " Flori, Flori !" 
 
 The man heard, and looked up, and swoing his hat hard. He 
 called too, but the sound was weak and thick, and the woman 
 standing all alone above did not hear it. 
 
 ^ :K ^ ^ H( 
 
 Florian is in the operating-room of the Innsbruck Hospital. 
 He knows that the operation must be performed if be wishes to 
 save his life at all, and for his child's sake he has consented. 
 
 A Sister of Charity is standing beside him murmuring words 
 of pious consolation, and giving him a little crucifix, for he has 
 asked for one. 
 
 The physician and surgeon are standing to one side in con- 
 sultation. 
 
 Now the surgeon steps up to Florian and begins to talk to 
 him. " My dear man," he says, kindly. " You know that we will 
 have to cut off most of your tongue, and you will probably be 
 unable to speak hereafter — " 
 
 Florian started and looked at him with horror. " We must 
 have courage," the surgeon continued, soothingly. " Everything 
 will probably pass off well, but if you have something more that 
 you wish especially to say, better say it now. It may be that you 
 can not say it afterward."
 
 72 SACRIFICE. 
 
 For a few moments Florian gazed at the cross in his hand, 
 then raising his eyes to heaven, he said: 
 
 " Praised be Jesus Christ," slowly and solemnly, and reverently 
 bowing his head. 
 
 The surgeon made a sign to the physician and turned with 
 moist eyes to his instrument-case. 
 
 It was late in autumn when the lone figure of a man came 
 up the highway to the village. The sky is as blue as in the mid- 
 summer; delicate silvery webs float in the soft air; the trees and 
 bushes glow in every shade of color. 
 
 The man stops often to breathe deeply. Oh, this is a different 
 air from that which one breathes in the hospital. Florian forbade 
 his dear ones to visit him. He feared the shock for them. Two 
 days before he left the hospital he wrote and told them the truth 
 for the first time. In his awkward and clumsy writing he told 
 them that the operation was successful, but that he would be 
 unable to talk for the rest of his life. This was a great misfortune, 
 to be sure, but he would try to bear it as a penance. Louise would 
 never have to go hungry again for his sake, now, but everything as 
 God wills. 
 
 They must have gotten the letter by this time and must know 
 what has happened. 
 
 Softly Florian went up the garden path and peeped through 
 the window into the living-room. 
 
 There they knelt, side by side, his wife and his child, reciting 
 the Rosary aloud. He knew they were praying for him. 
 
 His shadow fell on the floor and Louise looked up. A cry, " It 
 is father," and then she sprang to her feet and fairly flew out and 
 clung to him sobbing and murmuring endearments. He gently 
 stroked her blond hair and looked at her — dumb. 
 
 Anna, too, had risen — there she stood as if rooted, her feet 
 like lead, her heart beating in heavy thumps. Now her husband 
 entered. Silently, but with an unspeakably sad look, he held out 
 his hand to her. Then something rose hot and conquering in her 
 heartj a flood of the old warm love melted the ice that had crusted
 
 EVERILDA VON PUTZ. 73 
 
 over her feeling for liim, and with a smothered cry she clasped her 
 arms about his neck. " Flori/' she stammered, " my dear, good 
 Flori. How you must have suffered ! " 
 
 The man sank down on a chair and leaned his head against 
 her shoulder. She caressed him and stroked his hair. The old, 
 sweet time of their first love seemed to have come back to them. 
 And Louise knelt down beside her father and kissed his hands 
 in sheer joy, though she wept the while. 
 
 Everything was forgotten now — all the pain, the misery — the 
 disgrace. Nothing remained but his affliction and their love. 
 ***** 
 
 A singular life now developed itself for these three. The wife, 
 passionately atoning, living only for her hus1)and and child; 
 Florian heroically penitent, yet happy in the love of his own, 
 courageous and active; Louise, the light of the house, smiling, 
 cheerful, the consolation and the pride of her parents. 
 
 The tears and the sacrifice of her young life, however, God and 
 the angels had counted and rewarded.
 
 ^^S.^'-'^'V, 
 
 FERDINANDE BARONESS VON BRACKEL. 
 
 This writer was born November 24, 1835. at Castle Welda, 
 near Warburg, in Westphalia. She is the daughter of a long line 
 of noble ancestors and has done honor to her house by her gifts 
 as a writer, even as her ancestors have honored the name by 
 deeds of valor and statesmanship. She was educated, step by 
 step, along with her brothers, by the priest of the Castle village. 
 In this way her mental training was far beyond what was generally 
 granted girls in the days of her youth. Thus it is that, in addition
 
 to her great natural talents, her books show a remarkable erudition 
 and a ripe judgment. But it must be remembered that she gave 
 her talents time to ripen. She did not publish anything until 
 1873. and then but a small volume of verse. However. th'=> 
 small volume has run through four editions. Her first novel, " Die 
 Tochter des Kunstreiters," followed two years later, when the 
 writer was forty years old. It made her famous at one stroke. 
 The theme is not new, yet the treatment of the psychological 
 aspects of the story is so powerful that the interest never flags. 
 This novel was published in English under the title of "The Circus 
 Rider's Daughter," and ran through a number of editions in a short 
 time. 
 
 At the same time there appeared •• Heinrich Findelkind," a story 
 for the young. This was followed by two novels, " Nicht wie alle 
 Andern " and "Aus Fernen Landen." In 1878 came her romance, 
 " Daniella," which is considered her best work. Her other novels 
 which appeared during the next twenty years have all been well 
 received and passed through several editions: "Am Haidstock," 
 (translated into English with the title " The Fatal Beacon,") 
 " Prinzess Aba," " Der Spinnlehrer von Carrara," " Vom alten 
 Stamm," " Im Streit der Zeit." 
 
 F. V. BrackePs style is clear and fresh, whether the characters 
 she presents move in narrow circles, or in the broader fields of 
 life. She has always been true to the bent of her own clear 
 intellect, and has brought problems into consideration in her 
 writings which are rarely touched by women novelists. 
 
 She lives part of the time with her widowed brother in Cassel, 
 and part of the time in her native Castle Welda. Her latest 
 book is a volume of short stories, one of which, "Just a Simple 
 Story," follows this sketch.
 
 ?ust a Simple Storp. 
 
 BY FERDINANDE VON BRACKEL. 
 I. 
 
 THE ADVENT OF ROTTRAUT. 
 
 " What, another girl ? " said the Baron, as he stood at the 
 cradle and gave a disappointed look at the little thing that lay with 
 tight fists, its crumpled face half hidden. " And the child seems 
 dreadfully small to me, nurse. It is hardly to be found in the pil- 
 lows. Is it a real healthy baby?"' 
 
 " Indeed, I think it is, sir. But it is not at all like the other 
 children, I did not care to show her to my lady, for she is so 
 small. But then she has time enough to grow." 
 
 " Papa, may we see little sister ? " came children's voices from 
 the outside. 
 
 The father opened the door. " Easy, easy ! " he said, warn- 
 ingly, and three little girls from four to eight years old came tip- 
 toeing into the room, looking wide-eyed at the cradle. 
 
 " Were we all so ugly, too ? " asked the second eldest, after a 
 few moments of astonished survey, turning her pretty face to her 
 father, while the other two were still watching the tiny stranger in 
 mute curiosity, 
 
 " Little babies are never pretty," said the father, soothingly. 
 
 " Mamma always says that I was pretty at the very beginning," 
 the oldest one said, full of the consciousness of her own charms. 
 Eosy-cheeked, regular of feature, yellow-haired, and brilliant-eyed 
 as she was, it did not seem, indeed, that she could ever have been 
 anything but pleasant to look upon. 
 
 " What a funny nose she has ! " said the second one again. 
 " Just look, papa, how it turns up." 
 
 77
 
 78 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Take care of your own nose, miss," said the nurse, who, 
 after proper nurse-fashion, took the part of the youngest arrivah 
 " Your nose will be so long some day that you'll be glad enough 
 to give her a piece of it if ycr^ could." 
 
 " People with large noses appear intelligent," said the father 
 consolingly to the offended second eldest. 
 
 " Why, papa, I believe little sister's hair is red," the oldest 
 began her critique again. " Xone of us had red hair! " 
 
 " Sister is opening her eyes ! Sister is smiling ! " called out the 
 youngest, as the little one stretched its tiny fists across its face, 
 opened its blinky little eyes, and pulled up its mouth so that it 
 seemed as if it were really smiling. 
 
 " papa," said the children, in a chorus, " look what a big 
 mouth she has. It reaches to her ears." 
 
 " Xow be still, children," said the nurse, reprovingly. " You 
 have waked up little sister. She's a smart little thing, just the 
 same. See, she's laughing at 3'our nonsense. When she grows up 
 she will probably be much more beautiful that the rest of you and 
 will marry a prince, and then where will you be? " 
 
 Just then the doctor entered, and the children's attention was 
 diverted from the queer little sister, for, instead of the regular 
 family physician, his assistant had come on account of the old doc- 
 tor's illness. The new doctor, who was still a very young man, was 
 not only a stranger to them, but he was somewhat crippled, an ac- 
 cident in his childhood having caused an injury to his spine. His 
 face was pale and rather thin, as is often noticeable in cripples. 
 But the eyes were large and fine, and the symmetrical head led one 
 to think that he must possess unusual intelligence. He had, more- 
 over, a look of settled melancholy, though his expression when 
 speaking was most pleasant and kindly. 
 
 After he had said a few words to the Baron, he stepped to the 
 cradle and looked at the child. 
 
 "Do you really think the child can live? There is nothing 
 wrong with her, is there ? " asked the anxious father, while the 
 physician examined the tiny being. 
 
 " I do not find anj'thing that points to any defect," answered
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRACKED. 79 
 
 the physician, " and witli tlio good care " — turning to the nurse — 
 "which she will undoubtedly have, 1 am sure she will grow and 
 thrive splendidly." 
 
 The old nurse looked at him gratefully. 
 
 " A wonderfully plain little lady," said the father. " She will 
 have to change considerahly if she expects to make conquests some 
 day. What color are her eyes, nurse ? I believe they are blue." 
 
 " Brown," said the nurse. 
 
 " But I see distinctly this eye is blue." 
 
 The physician bent over the child again and looked at it. 
 
 " The little one has, so far as I can see now, different colored 
 eyes — one is brown and one is blue " — 
 
 "What! That, too? Why, that is a terrible state of things 
 for a girl," said the father. " She is a regular child of misfortune. 
 If she were but a boy ! " 
 
 " One can't tell that yet," said the nurse again. " Just see what 
 a jolly face she has even now." 
 
 " She will need to have something to offset the rest of her." 
 
 " What shall we call the little lady of the red hair ? " said the 
 Baron again. 
 
 " Call her Eottraut. If she is sweet and loving every one will 
 forget her red hair," said the doctor. 
 
 And thus the little lady was called, for in the old German 
 name Traut means loving and true, and Rot red. 
 
 It was many years later. The little girls were all young ladies, 
 even the youngest one with the red hair and the turned-up nose. 
 
 " I am really grown-up, and a young lady. I have even been at 
 a number of balls. Just ask mamma, doctor," she added, for there 
 seemed to be a doubt in the eyes of her listener. 
 
 The man to whom she was speaking was the same physician 
 who had stood at her cradle, now a trusted and noted practitioner. 
 After the death of the old doctoi^e came into most of his prac- 
 tise, that of the Baron's family included. The nurse liked him 
 because he managed to persuade her into his way of thinking with-
 
 80 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 out antagonizing her. Between them they brought up the dainty 
 little girl. 
 
 " There is little of her/' the nurse was wont to say, " but what 
 there is is jolly and good and contented. Her off-colored eyes 
 see nothing but the pleasant side of things." 
 
 Although her mother sighed very often when she looked at the 
 little creature, and considered, with some dismay, her possible 
 future, the physician in whom many trusted and believed was de- 
 lighted at the affection the child seem to have for him. The 
 pleasant little face was full of life and vivacity, and even her 
 parents observed what delight went with her presence. 
 
 " Rottraut always thinks of something jolly," her sisters said 
 of her, " and the teachers like her best. For even when she does 
 not know anything she has some answer that makes them laugh, 
 and they do not scold her, and they like her better even than Ger- 
 trude, who is so much smarter." 
 
 Gertrude's nose had really become a little too long, but she had 
 an air of brightness and intelligence, and people called her " dis- 
 tinguished." Elsie, the oldest, was beautiful, even as she had been 
 when a child, and no one thought of what she knew or did not know 
 when he looked at her. Lisa, the third, had a healthy bloom that 
 was exceedingly pretty, though she was hardly a beauty, and it 
 was said of her that she would be an excellent wife some day. Of 
 the fourth, however, people said but little, or if they did, and meant 
 to be kind, they said that children change a great deal as they 
 grow up. 
 
 Now she was grown, indeed, but was very little changed ; so even 
 the doctor, who was used to the irregularities of her face, had to 
 admit. It came home to him particularly just now, after his re- 
 turn from a stay of several months spent at a university in special 
 studies. It astonished him, too, to see the delight she evidently 
 took in society. He himself never went out to social affairs be- 
 cause of his deformity, and for her, too, he feared that the rebuffs 
 that come to plainness and unattractiveness would destroy her 
 sunny disposition. He could not understand how her parents 
 could expose her to the chance of experiences which are always
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRAGKEL. 81 
 
 SO much more sad and bitter for a woman than for a man. But it 
 had happened, and there she sat and laughed the same as ever, and 
 talked even more gaily. 
 
 '•' I'll tell you how it is, doctor — or must I call you professor, 
 
 now 
 
 V" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " But I would like to so much," she persisted. " You see, I 
 always have a better time than the others. If I were good-looking 
 I would have to spend two or three more years studying, for Elsie 
 does not care to have so many younger sisters going out with her. 
 But mamma so often complained of staying at home on my account 
 that the other girls found it uncomfortable, and at last they asked 
 that I be taken along. It did not make any difference, being only 
 me, for they did not think that I would take any of their dances 
 from them. So I have gone to a number of balls and have come 
 out much younger than my sisters did." 
 
 " And you enjoyed yourself? " the doctor asked, still dubious. 
 
 " Of course I enjoyed myself. Did not old nurse always say 
 that I could please anybody ? " she asked, roguishly. " If any one 
 likes brown eyes I look at him with my right eye; if he likes blue, 
 I let him gaze into my left. There were many girls there who did 
 not dance, and I did not either at first. But I had my own special 
 joke. It pleased my sisters so to have people ask who I was, and 
 then have them remark that 1 do not look a bit like the other 
 girls ! Once I heard a little lieutenant asking Elsie, ' Who 
 is that wonderful red Aurora over there?' and then see him 
 wilt when he heard that it was her sister. Afterward he had to 
 take me in to dinner. I believe he could not see straight for a few 
 moments, he was so frightened. But I consoled him. ' Aurora 
 always precedes the light,' I said. He became very red, a regular 
 blush of dawn, and stammered all sorts of apologies, but when I 
 laughed he finally laughed, too, and we had a very pleasant time 
 together after that. At the next ball he came to me right in the 
 beginning and we had three dances together. Think of it, doctor, 
 three dances ! But don't be surprised. The belles had no wish to 
 dance with him because he is so little and still so young, so that
 
 82 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 we two had a very nice time without any one bothering. He is the 
 nicest, the very nicest little lieutenant that there ever, ever was " — 
 
 " If you enjoy going out so much I am afraid that the plan I 
 was thinking of will not please you," interrupted the doctor. 
 During all her chatter he seemed to be thinking deeply. 
 
 Just now he was reflecting how often people who have the very 
 best intentions in the world do the wrong thing when they most 
 wish to do the right, by interfering in the affairs of their fellow- 
 beings. Besides that, he had another reason, and for a moment his 
 thoughts dwelt somewhat savagely on the " very nicest little 
 lieutenant."' 
 
 The Baron had risen to a high government position. But the 
 double duties of his office and of the life necessitated by his daugh- 
 ters being such prominent members of society, had been very hard 
 upon the aging man, who was now somewhat ailing and run down. 
 A furlough 'seemed immediately necessary. Foreign travel was 
 suggested, but the Baron protested that at present he could not 
 afford it. He would go to his estate. There was quiet there, too 
 much quiet, though it was only a few miles away. Then the doctor 
 thought it might be well if he took his youngest daughter along 
 for company, the underlying idea being that the girl herself would 
 be happier away from the society that would but snub her. 
 
 But now the doctor began to feel very uncomfortable. If she 
 found this society so diverting would she want to leave it? Diffi- 
 dently he began to unfold his plan. 
 
 " you dear, good doctor ! " Rottraut called out, springing 
 up from her seat. " you dear ! Papa is going into the country 
 and I am going along! Why, tliat is the loveliest idea you could 
 have had. Am I not right? Everything nice always comes to 
 me — I have the best of everything." 
 
 " But it will be very quiet and lonely out there," protested 
 the doctor. " Xo balls, no nice little lieutenants " — 
 
 " Oh, there I shall be the enchanted princess, and of course the 
 handsomest and bravest prince in the world will come to wake me, 
 as old nurse used to prophesy. But just think how astonished the 
 prince will be when he sees me open my eyes — first a blue one and
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRACKEL. 83 
 
 then a brown ! I am afraid he will lose courage and run away. 
 And 30U will come out some time, won't you, doctor? All the 
 doors shall open of themselves when you come. What did papa 
 say, and will mamma have no objections? " 
 
 No, mamma had no objections — mamma was glad to have 
 one girl less to take around. Elsie thought it best to have her 
 youngest sister out of the way a while longer, and Gertrude hoped 
 that she would study a little more, for really she knew hardly any- 
 thing. The only one who did not seem quite happy was the doctor 
 who had suggested the plan. Somehow he suddenly found the 
 Baron's house most strangely lonesome — even more so than his 
 own apartments, where he lived with his books and his house- 
 keeper. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE ADVEXT OF THE PRINCE. 
 
 The seclusion that the Baron had promised himself did not 
 last very long. They were only on the estate a few days when he 
 and his daughter, out for one of their long walks, met two gen- 
 tlemen, one of whom Avas greeted most deferentially by the Baron. 
 
 This gentleman was none less than the nephew and heir of the 
 reigning Prince. He had just returned from a trip around the 
 world, and had been expected in the capital for some time. But 
 he preferred to come first to this little hunting-lodge, to arrange 
 his rare collection, gathered from all parts of the globe. 
 
 The Baron, himself a great personage in the little principality, 
 was treated most cordially by the Prince ; when they met the next 
 day the Prince joined him and they walked along in animated con- 
 versation. The Prince's companion and adjutant followed with 
 the young girl. He was Count Walden, the long-time adorer of 
 Elsie, waiting for the Prince's accession and an appointment which 
 should enable them to marry. In the mean time the Baron did 
 not look very kindly upon his courtship, and Count "Walden was 
 quite delighted to be able to thus meet his sweetheart's father 
 under the wing of the Prince. As for herself, Eottraut kept think-
 
 84 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 ing how happy Elsie would be if she were in her place, and yet how 
 little jealous she would be of her homely sister — and the humor of 
 the thought caused her to laugh merrily at everything possible. 
 
 The first day the Prince had said to Count Waldcn : " I thought 
 you told me that the Baron's daughters are all very beautiful ? " 
 
 " All but this one," Walden hastened to aflfirm. 
 
 But the next day the girl's infectious laughter filled his ears, 
 until at last the Prince turned and looked back to see what there 
 was to laugh at. 
 
 The girl was not a bit embarrassed. 
 
 " What was it, child ? " asked the Baron. 
 
 " papa," she answered, " tlic merriest tale, twice told, is 
 stale." 
 
 " You seem to have a lively fancy," said the Prince, joining 
 Rottraut as they started again, while Count Walden was left to 
 walk with the Baron. 
 
 Rottraut was not displeased at the change. The Prince did 
 not seem nearly as stiff and formal as she had thought princes to 
 be, but laughed gaily at her witty sallies. To be sure, he had little 
 to say himself, but the people said of him that he was a scientist, 
 and studied a great deal, which was certainly not true of many 
 princes. It was one of his delights to discover things out of the 
 ordinary, and so he enjoyed the girl's piquancy and original 
 manner. 
 
 " As things are," he said to his adjutant on the way home, " it 
 will probably be rather pleasant for you to be able to become well 
 acquainted with the Baron and make a good impression on him. 
 This walk need not be our last. Try to win his good opinion ; I 
 shall help you as much as I can." 
 
 When he returned to his antiquities he seemed to hear Rot- 
 traut's merry laugh, just as the doctor did among his books, and 
 he began to wonder what she would say about his collection. 
 
 Tlie next day they all met again. And so many other days. 
 If his other daughters had been there, the Baron would have 
 thought it noticeable that from that time on the Prince usually 
 walked with Rottraut. But she — she was safe.
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRACKEL. 85 
 
 Count Walden in the mean time talked most seriously to the 
 liaron about politics and affairs of state. He also mentioned tlie 
 probable betrothal of the Prince to a certain Princess. lie told 
 how beautiful she was, how anxious the parents on both sides were 
 for the union, what a blessing it would be for the country, and so 
 on, not forgetting to put in that the Prince upon his marriage 
 would have his own residence and would be liberal in his treatment 
 of those appointed for his service. The Baron listened calmly to 
 all these things, but, as many other papas do under similar circum- 
 stances, gave them little thought. Why should he discuss the mat- 
 ter with his daughter and have her write her sister Elsie about it ? 
 It would but disturb Elsie's peace of mind with useless hopes. 
 
 So each in his way found the solitude delightful, and it lasted 
 until Count Walden fell to reminding the Prince every day that 
 he was eagerly awaited in the city, while the Baroness and her 
 daughters commiserated the Baron and Eottraut in each letter for 
 their banishment. At last the announcement was made that the 
 Princess who was spoken of as the prospective bride was coming 
 to the city, and in the great festivities in her honor papa and 
 Eottraut must take part. Even the doctor found the stay in the 
 country had been sufficiently prolonged for the Baron's health. 
 
 But for the first time in her life Eottraut did not seem to feel 
 a great desire to see her old-time friend the doctor. 
 
 ***** 
 
 When the Baron and his daughter came back to the city the 
 older sisters had much to tell, and they did not seem anxious to 
 hear Eottraut's experiences. They did know that the Prince 
 had talked a great deal to their father, and they felt that the time 
 might come when this friendship would yet be very useful to the 
 Baron — their father might be minister if the Prince became ruler. 
 But Eottraut said nothing, not even to the doctor, for though the 
 Prince had talked much to her, she did not seem to be able to tell 
 what he really said. She noticed how pale the doctor was, and for 
 the first time Eottraut was impressed with the fact that his figure 
 was misshapen. But she did not have much time for reflection, 
 for the Princess had arrived, and the ladies of the capital were
 
 86 JV&T A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 to be presented to her. The Baroness somehow felt that four 
 daughters were too many to present at once, and wanted to leave 
 the youngest at homo, but the Baron would not listen to that. At 
 the very last moment the third, Lisa, had a toothache. That would 
 have been bad enough, but when the toothache resulted in a swollen 
 cheek she of course had to be left behind. The two older girls 
 were very charming in their dainty spring gowns. But Rottraut I 
 if she could but have worn her outing suit, as she did when tramp- 
 ing around in the country ! These same tramps had added freckles 
 to her other defects, and Rottraut looked sadly at her reflection 
 in the mirror. But what was to be done? 
 
 A little while later she was standing before the beautiful Prin- 
 cess. Beautiful as she was, Rottraut noticed that she said the 
 same thing over and over again to everybody. Perhaps she was 
 shy. But when she saw Rottraut she held out her hand most 
 cordially, and told her that the Prince had talked of her a great 
 deal. " I knew you at once," she added. 
 
 " I am afraid it is impossible for me to travel incognito," Rot- 
 traut answered, as she bent over the Princess' hand for the cus- 
 tomary kiss. For the first time in her life she did not like being 
 reminded of her red hair and her variegated eyes, which undoubt- 
 edly the Prince had mentioned in describing her. 
 
 " We will see more of each other later," said the Princess. 
 " At court most people are so stiff, and the Prince told me that you 
 have such pleasant ideas." 
 
 Stiff the Princess surely was, and of ideas, pleasant or other- 
 wise, she did not seem to have very man}^, Rottraut soon discovered. 
 So she was glad when the Prince approached. But everything was 
 different and formal here, compared to their country meetings, 
 and Rottraut was embarrassed. Perhaps it was that she was too 
 glad to see him, for she had thought of him often in these days, 
 and the old nurse's prediction about the Prince who was sure to 
 come for her some time kept running through her brain. 
 
 When Rottraut returned home that day she did what she had 
 done very often lately — she looked in the glass. This time she 
 found out that her nose was really not bad, and that her figure
 
 FERDINANDE VON BRACKEL. 87 
 
 was graceful ; she remembered that the Prince had often admired 
 her hair, and told her that the great painters all liked red hair. 
 Why should jieople not like hers? And she thought so hard of all 
 these things that when she sat opposite the doctor the next time 
 he called she really did not know what to say to him. 
 
 Not until he was gone did she remember that he had said that 
 her old nurse was ill, and had suggested how glad the good old 
 woman would be if Eottraut would come to see her and tell her 
 some of her jolly stories. But what should she say to the old 
 woman ? In these days when the Prince was expected to call she 
 had no desire to go away off into the suburbs. Moreover, she was 
 convinced that her sister Lisa had visited her. 
 
 The Prince did call on the following day, but he was so 
 occupied with the different ladies of the house that he had but 
 time to say a few words to Rottraut. He told her then how sorry 
 he was that he could give her so little attention, and that was as 
 good as a long conversation. 
 
 A few days later the Princess came and was most anxious to see 
 the Baroness. Her maid of honor was ill, and she needed some 
 one in her place ; would she not let her have Eottraut for the time? 
 
 Naturally the Baroness was flattered, but astonished at the 
 Princess' selection. Elsie or Gertie would have been more suitable, 
 but Gertie said that the Princess did not want to be overshadowed 
 by Elsie's beauty nor by her, Gertie's, cleverness. 
 
 " She is careful on account of the Prince," said Gertrude. 
 
 " That is it," said Rottraut. " I always get the good things be- 
 cause no one is afraid of me." 
 
 She said it laughingly, but for the first time her too ample 
 mouth showed a bitter and disagreeable line. Perhaps she could 
 show her sisters that she could make a different impression to 
 what they imagined. 
 
 In the service of the Princess, Rottraut found so much to do, 
 and she had to accustom herself to so many new things, that she 
 had little time to think. In a few days the Prince himself called, 
 and remained for tea, something which he had never done before. 
 He seemed highly pleased to meet Rottraut and talked a good deal.
 
 88 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " He Just stayed because you entertained him so well. You 
 always have something interesting and pleasant to say. I wish 
 I could talk as you do. I never can say a word to him no matter 
 how hard I try. Can you not help me ?" asked the Princess, and her 
 great velvety eyes were fixed so confidingly on Rottraut that the 
 girl had a guilty feeling of being unworthy of so much of her 
 confidence. 
 
 " I believe I can tell you," she answered, " why you have noth- 
 ing to say. A woman can never say much in the presence of some 
 one of whom she is very fond. A man, on the other hand, finds all 
 the more to say," and she smiled and buried her little nose in the 
 tea rose which the Prince had given her. 
 
 " If women can not talk w^hen they are in love then you must 
 never have been in love," said the Princess, as she brushed back 
 the girl's red ringlets almost tenderly. These same ringlets were 
 built up now after the most approved fashion, and pale yellow tea 
 roses nestled in them. 
 
 " Those yellow roses in your hair were really a happy sugges- 
 tion on the part of the Prince. You ought always to wear brown 
 velvet and pale yellow roses, especially if it should happen some 
 day that you too would be afflicted by a thick tongue and nothing 
 to say," and the Princess kissed the girl tenderly. 
 
 If it is. true that a man's wit is quickened by being in love, 
 as Rottraut said, then it was not well with the Prince. For he 
 had a desire to do and say many things these days, and most of 
 them had some relation to the plain little maid of the beautiful 
 Princess. He had a new plan for every day. Sometimes it was 
 a visit to the museum, sometimes to the theater, sometimes a little 
 excursion into the country, winding up with a country dance. If 
 Rottraut noticed these things she gave no sign, although she usu- 
 ally took part and wore her pale yellow roses. The Prince spent 
 a great deal of time at her side. The Princess may have noticed 
 this, but she would not let herself think of it, for she did not 
 believe that she could come to grief through Rottraut, in whom she 
 had confided utterly. 
 
 It was true, too, that the Prince had made it a point to express
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRACKEL. 89 
 
 opinions upon many things at these fetes — and he had particularly 
 insisted that a pretty face could never satisfy him. Wit was more 
 than beauty; he admired the elTervescing quickness of mind that 
 brightens and fascinates. This was most pleasant to Eottraut, for 
 even her best friend, the doctor, had never praised her in that 
 way. And so she began to think again that if the Princess had 
 taken her merely because she was not good-looking, and there was 
 no need to be afraid of her, she knew differently by this time. 
 
 And with all these thoughts it was not unnatural that she be- 
 came quieter and more quiet all the time. 
 
 The Prince thought so too, and said to her one day : " The air 
 of the court is not good for you; out in the country you never 
 looked as serious as you do now. I hope that when we go out to 
 my lodge to-morrow you will find your delicious sparkle again. 
 Do you not remember how we walked through the woods together, 
 and 3'ou had a different story for every flower, every tree ? . . . 
 I hope I may count on you to-morrow," he added, softly, " for I 
 have something particular to say to you — for once I should like to 
 have the privilege of saying something unusual myself," he added, 
 and stooped to pick up the rose which she had dropped. But not 
 to return it to her^ but to fasten it into his buttonhole as if he 
 too had acquired a fondness for pale yellow roses. 
 
 When Eottraut went to bed that evening she lay awake, filled 
 with a strange restlessness that banished sleep for the first time in 
 her life. 
 
 In the morning she found that the country air might not be 
 good for her, and as she had not seen her father for so long a 
 time, she would spend the day with him. He would be all alone, 
 for her mother and sisters would Join the country party. Then, 
 too, she could at last make the long-promised call on her old nurse. 
 And really the party would not miss her. 
 
 The Princess seemed distressed at her request, but she gave 
 her permission, nevertheless, saying, however, that the Prince 
 would no doubt be displeased, as he had planned the outing for 
 Eottraut's benefit. 
 
 As Eottraut sat with her father and watched the coaches
 
 90 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 roll away her feelings were most conflicting. Would the Prince 
 miss her? And she felt that he would, and somehow she found 
 little to say to her father, who was not in very good humor himself. 
 
 Indeed, lately all sorts of unpleasant thoughts had come into 
 his mind. 
 
 Elsie, Gertie, and Lisa, his three beautiful daughters, had been 
 out in society for many years, and had been taken to every func- 
 tion, and what had come of it? Elsie could only marry Count 
 Walden when he obtained his court appointment, and that was still 
 far afield. Who knew whether he would ever get it? Also, was 
 it not said that the Prince cared but little for the Princess who 
 had been selected as his bride, and that he loved some one else 
 not his equal in rank. Even yesterday he had heard similar allu- 
 sions at the Casino, and why did Eottraut stay at home to-day? 
 What could it mean? 
 
 But Eottraut would not listen to her father. She brought out 
 the cards and reminded him of the jolly times they had had play- 
 ing cards in the country, and then the Baron called her his good 
 little daughter, who always knew what to do to amuse him. Be- 
 tween times he scolded about the Prince, who did not seem to 
 know enough to marry the Princess, and was thus making him- 
 self and others miserable. 
 
 But Kottraut at this became very silent, and found that it 
 was time to go to see the old nurse. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE REAL PRINCE. 
 
 " Ah," said the sick woman, " thanks be to God that you think 
 of visiting poor old nurse again ! I have waited so long for you. 
 Is it the same merry face we used to know, doctor? I can not 
 see as well now as I did then." 
 
 At the word " doctor " Rottraut looked up in astonishment. 
 A man who had been sitting by the side of the bed rose. It was 
 the doctor. 
 
 " Professor, I ought to say now," the old nurse amended.
 
 FERDINANDE VON BRACKEL. 91 
 
 Rottraut herself hardly knew why she felt so strange when his 
 earnest eyes were fixed questioningly upon her. She blushed and 
 suddenly thought what beautiful and expressive eyes the doctor 
 had. In her embarrassment she held out her hand quite in the old 
 way, and congratulated him, telling him that he had become a 
 great man. 
 
 " But he is just as good as ever,'' said the old nurse. " As good 
 as gold. He never forgot me, and always brought me help or 
 consolation." 
 
 " But the very best thing of all — the sunshine — I could not 
 bring. You never have looked as happy for me as you do just 
 now." 
 
 " To make people happy has been Rottraut's gift since she is on 
 earth," said the nurse. 
 
 " It is one of the most gracious gifts. God keep it for you 
 at all times, and in all places," said the doctor to Rottraut signifi- 
 cantly, and then he raised her hand to his lips, something he had 
 never done before in his life. It seemed as if he were about to say 
 something more, then he turned and went to the door. 
 
 " A very good man," said the old nurse, " and he has a sad lot." 
 
 " But M'hy sad ? " asked Rottraut, hastily. " He has a great 
 name — everybody likes him." 
 
 " To be liked is not to be loved, many a heart has found," said 
 the old woman. " Many a girl would have him, but he always 
 thinks of his deformed appearance, and — " 
 
 " But he is not at all homely, with his beautiful eyes," protested 
 Rottraut, " and love does not bother itself about personal appear- 
 ance very much."' 
 
 " Ah, but his heart belongs only to one," the old woman went 
 on, with a sigh. " Perhaps he did ho])e to win her for a time, but 
 now he says it was foolish of him to think so. Since then he looks 
 so sad. Do you know that he told me the Prince is in love with 
 you? Everybody in the city is talking of it. They say he does 
 not care for the beautiful Princess, but for you. Is it true? A 
 Prince, a real Prince? What will your charming sisters say to 
 that ? Is he real good, too ? "
 
 92 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " How can yoii talk such nonsense of the Prince, dear nurse ? " 
 Rottrant asked, and bending over her old nurse she took her by 
 the shoulders and kissed her. " The Prince is probably not half as 
 good nor clever as our dear doctor." The girl was glad that the 
 clock struck just then, and reminded her that it was high time to 
 leave to eo back to the Princess. 
 
 When she returned the Princess was in a more radiant mood 
 than Eottraut had ever seen her. It was a beautiful day. The 
 Prince had been a little put out on account of Rottraut's absence, 
 but it had been a lovely day. And the Princess showed great 
 anxiety about her toilet, and begged Eottraut to advise her what 
 to wear. 
 
 The Prince had not talked in vain to Rottraut about color and 
 color schemes, and she therefore chose most carefully, in spite of 
 the many thoughts that were crowding her little head. The Prin- 
 cess was delighted, and suggested that Rottraut was not even as 
 particular in choosing her own toilet as she had been in choosing 
 that of the Princess. 
 
 And indeed the girl put on her own gown carelessly, giving 
 little heed to its becomingness ; in addition, she looked weary and 
 troubled. 
 
 At dinner Rottraut sat beside the Prince, and he noticed how 
 quiet and serious she was, and found that this did not suit her at 
 all ; indeed, for the first time in his life her lack of beauty seemed 
 remarkable to him. He protested that he had missed her at the 
 picnic, and asked why she had stayed away. At last, wondering 
 of what she might be thinking so hard that she could ignore him, 
 he grew somewhat cool, and haughtily asked her what problems 
 absorbed her so entirely. 
 
 She looked up at him suddenly, and a little of her customary 
 vivacity came back to her face. 
 
 " I am thinking most seriously of becoming engaged," she said. 
 
 The Prince gazed at her in utter astonishment. 
 
 *^You are thinking of becoming engaged! Most young girls
 
 FERDINANDS VON BRACKEL. 93 
 
 do not speak of things like that until they are actually engaged," 
 he added, with just a tinge of sarcasm. 
 
 " But it is the truth," she went on, " I am only thinking of it. 
 Other girls are always thinking of this possibility, but it seemed 
 so far away from me. Tell me truly. Your Highness, did you ever 
 think it possible that anybody should think of me in that way ? " 
 
 " Do you really think that there is but one who could think 
 of you in that way? " the Prince asked, gently. He found that in 
 spite of all it might have been hard for him to think that way of 
 her at times. 
 
 " You see, Y'our Highness, you, for instance, liked to talk to 
 me because I happen to have a pleasing wit. But supposing I hap- 
 pened to be serious and tedious some time, just as I am to-day? 
 Oh, you are much too kind to want to answer me," she went on, 
 with a gleam of her old humor, " but the other one will love me 
 just as much. The best thing there is, I think, is a heart in which 
 we can always find love, no matter what our mood," she added, 
 and then she looked over at the Princess, whose eyes were fixed on 
 them. The conversation had the appearance of being most in- 
 timate. 
 
 The Prince, too, involuntarily followed her glance and caught 
 something in the Princess' eyes that flattered him. He had, to 
 admit that she was a most beautiful woman, more beautiful, it 
 seemed to him, than he had ever seen her before. And the advan- 
 tages of a union with her seemed to come up before his mental 
 vision. 
 
 "You may be right," he said at last to his plain neighbor. 
 " But you have not yet told me the name of the fortunate man." 
 
 " We will wait a little," she answered. " It is not a noble name, 
 though a distinguished one. If it were one of my beautiful sisters, 
 papa might hesitate ; but for the little girl with the red hair, and 
 one blue and one brown eye, why, it is an unexpected good fortune. 
 As for me — well, it is happiness, too, to have won one of the best 
 and truest hearts." 
 
 " Truly, truly," said the Prince, " and therefore I wish him 
 who has won you a thrice happy life."
 
 94 JUST A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 She gave him her hand, and this time he held it like a good 
 chum; with something like tears shimmering in her eyes she 
 looked up at him and said : 
 
 " I shall never forget your kindness to the homely little girl, 
 and I hope that you too will soon be happy, and will make others 
 happy." She suddenly thought of Elsie. " And then will you 
 not also think of another couple who have long and patiently 
 waited for their happiness ? Papa will not give his consent to my 
 sister's marriage until Count Walden has his appointment." 
 
 " And through the Count you want to put your papa in good 
 humor? " the Prince said, laughingly. " Very well. I can hardly 
 deny 3'ou anything to-day, although I am inclined to be vexed with 
 you for wanting to leave us." 
 
 Then he led the girl to the Princess, and after a few moments 
 took his leave. 
 
 " You talked a very long time with the Prince," said the 
 Princess, just a little suspiciously. " It is a delightful gift to be 
 able to converse so entertainingly." 
 
 " But this time it was something very particular. I was telling 
 the Prince of my betrothal, which is not generally known as yet. 
 It is an old love that has lasted since I was a small girl, and I hope 
 Your Highness will rejoice with me a little." 
 
 And indeed the Princess did rejoice. She never had been so 
 happy and animated before. But the people who had noticed Rot- 
 traut's long conversation with the Prince said that he was in love 
 with her, and that the Princess was trying to conceal her chagrin 
 beneath her assumed gaiety. 
 
 Professor Schirmeck heard this rumor, too, and had his own 
 grief about the matter as he went down to his clinic the next 
 morning. He passed the house of the old nurse on the way, and 
 for a moment thought of going in to tell her. Then he felt that 
 it was not a tale after all of which he wanted to be the bearer. So 
 ho walked along with bent head, until somebody suddenly stood 
 in his way. 
 
 It was Rottraut herself, her eyes dancing, her lips quivering
 
 PERDINANDE VON BRACKEL. 95 
 
 as if with suppressed laughter, just as he had often seen her when 
 she had something funny to say. 
 
 " J have to tell you first," she said, clinging to his arm, " you, 
 my oldest and very best friend." 
 
 The professor's head bent low, his voice sounded strained. 
 
 " I think I can guess what you have to say. A brilliant lot is 
 to be yours." 
 
 " Indeed, I could hardly have expected a better." 
 
 It hurt him that her voice sounded so carelessly gay. 
 
 He stood still, as if to cut short the conversation. " Then I 
 may congratulate you right now ? " 
 
 " Indeed you may. But my engagement is not yet officially 
 announced. In the mean time I hear that you, too, are engaged, 
 and that you have chosen very wisely." 
 
 " 1? You will have to tell me who is my bride to be. Frankly, 
 I do not like such empty raillery, my lady." 
 
 " Indeed, I hope that it is not empty raillery," Rottraut said, 
 in a low voice. " From what I have heard I am indeed going to 
 enter into a more advantageous marriage — but I do hope that you, 
 too, will be happy " — 
 
 The doctor was very pale. 
 
 " This is too much, my lady," he said, harshly. " You have 
 not hit upon a happy thought " — 
 
 " Oh, it is the best, the very best I have had in all my life — 
 or do you mean that you really do not want your little girl ? " and 
 she let go of his arm and looked into his eyes. " Have I made a 
 mistake ? Who knows what might have happened if I had not felt 
 so sure and a real Prince had appeared, just as nurse used to say 
 he would ? A real Prince, professor ! " 
 
 The \doctor did not seem to hear what she M-as saying, but 
 Eottraut felt that hers had been a happy thought in spite of his 
 silence, and a few minutes later the little house of the old nurse 
 was the scene of their radiant happiness. It was the doctor who 
 now became eloquent and she who was silent, for hers was happi- 
 ness founded on true love without pride or self-seeking.
 
 
 M. HERBERT. 
 
 Along with Ferdinande von Brackel and Antonie Jiingst, 
 M. Herbert is one of the foremost names among German Catholic 
 women writers. The real name of the writer is Theresa Keiter, 
 and she is the widow of the critic and htterateur, Heinrich Keiter, 
 who died on August 30, 1898. M. Herbert is a modern writer in 
 Ihe best sense of the word. She called a collection of her stories 
 ' Children of the Time," and it was a fit title. Her stories are 
 children of the time and filled with the spirit of the day, but set
 
 against the background of the faith in eternity, which is needed 
 to give to things of time their right perspective. There are two 
 characteristic qualities in her writing — originality and depth of 
 conception. Her husband wrote of her work, before he became 
 acquainted with her who was to be his wife— "The quality of 
 Herbert's work, which always fascinates, is the brilliant style and 
 the finished way in which the author manages to bring in her ideas 
 on life and humanity. God and eternity, art and literature, and the 
 problems of the day. so that the effect is neither disturbing nor 
 insistent, but seems but to complete the harmonious impression 
 of the whole." 
 
 Theresa Kellner, that was the writer's maiden name, was born 
 on June 20. 1859, in Melsungen, in Hessen. She began her literary 
 work when very young and had won a name among German writers 
 by the time she was twenty-seven, with her novels and romances 
 "Miss Edda Brown," "Das Kind seines Herzens," "Die Jagd 
 nach dem Gliick." " Kinder der Zeit," and others. After these she 
 wrote : " Gemischte Gesellschaft," " Baalsopfer," " Frauennovellen," 
 "Aglae." Besides this she contributed to periodicals. She also 
 published a little book of aphorisms and a book of poems. Both 
 of these essays into new fields of literature were favorably received 
 by the critics, and helped to confirm her high standing in German 
 Catholic literature.
 
 Xlinsel. 
 
 BY M. HERBERT. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 Ox the sunny side of a hill, near one of the quiet little towns 
 of which there are so many in Germany, there was a weed-grown 
 garden. The crumbling wall and the neglected flower-beds framed 
 a dilapidated old house. The wind had torn many a tile from 
 the roof, and the rain long since washed the paint from its walls. 
 Even the grape-vine, that may itself have been planted to cover 
 the signs of decay, was not tied up, but hung unpruncd, its creepers 
 fluttering loosely, with but few bunches of fruit among the chok- 
 ing luxuriance of leaf. 
 
 Beside the house, however, there stood a great linden-tree, in- 
 different in its majesty to the decay and weediness about it. Its 
 green branches struck the dusty windows and reached inside when 
 they were opened, the only fresh and beautiful thing in the place. 
 
 The surroundings were an indication of the interior. The 
 hallway was covered with straw and dust, the tapestries hung from 
 the walls in fragments; here and there were dusty and broken 
 pieces of household furniture, while worn-out garments hung on 
 rusty hooks. 
 
 And who were they who lived amidst such surroundings? 
 
 In a room whose furnishings were in keeping with the whole 
 place an old man sat at an ancient piano and accompanied his 
 beautiful little daughter as she sang. 
 
 The man was a veritable human ruin ; he seemed to be a faded 
 gray from the crown of his head to his toes. One could not tell 
 whether he had thus faded with the passing time, or whether the 
 
 99
 
 iOO TINSEL. 
 
 thick dust which covered all else in this house and followed every 
 motion one made by a quick rising cloud had settled on him too. 
 
 The long and ample dressing-gown which hung about his 
 spare form, the thin curls that fell to the updrawn shoulders, the 
 bushy eyebrows, everything was gray and colorless, except for 
 the deep, dark eyes — the one touch of vivid life in the man. The 
 years back of him, however, had been eventful and vari-colored, 
 rich in hopes, and full of disappointments; full, too, of brilliant 
 scenes, in which he had been a spectator oftener than an actor. 
 
 His soul had been filled with a flaming desire for the highest 
 and the most evanescent of all the gifts that life offers. He had 
 dreamed the dream of art and of its success — the dream which 
 betrays thousands by its allurements, and yet never fulfils its 
 promises — for somewhere, somehow, its devotees experience the 
 sting of dissatisfaction and heartache. 
 
 Even now that his own life was gray, and forgotten of the 
 crowd, he did not give up his dream. It rose again, more en- 
 chanting than ever in the last thing left to him — his yellow-haired, 
 golden-voiced little daughter. It was a marvel that she should 
 rise out of the dirt and the dust, the poverty and deprivation into 
 Avhich the old musician sank deeper and deeper every day, delicate 
 and graceful as a blossom. But she herself was a marvel. Thus 
 the old man told himself. Thus he told the child — too often. 
 She was a wonder, as Malibran had been once — Malibran, whose 
 glory of song had been the enthusiasm of his own youth. 
 
 There was a magic in his daughter's voice, and he hoped that 
 her future would be filled with the roses whose thorns only he 
 had felt. When he had seen her first triumph he would be willing 
 to die ; he would then have reached the loveliest thing of which he 
 had ever dreamed. His life and work would not have been in vain. 
 
 The girl herself, the object of his proud desires, wove the web 
 of her own fancy into dreams of a future, brilliant and happy. 
 She had never known the gentle and pious influence of a mother's 
 love. She did not even know what her mother's name had been. 
 Tier father had nurtured no tender memories of her in the child's 
 mind; for his marriage with the beautiful, careless danseuse had
 
 M. HERBERT. 101 
 
 been one more of the shattered hopes of his life. She had died 
 after clouding his unhappy ^vay with a few more shadows. And 
 he had not mourned her. Whatever belonged to the past was 
 valueless and forgotten. The poor musician had a narrow heart, 
 a circumscribed existence. His whole being fed hungrily on that 
 one desire, that one hope. He would long since have died of 
 )nental and physical decay if the thought of his child's future 
 liiid not kept him at a living tension. The girl really had a happy 
 cliildhood — free, full of sunshine and delicious idleness^ with no 
 thought of care nor duty, beloved and petted, as if there were no 
 dark days to be expected in life. For although her surroundings 
 seemed bare and ugly in the eyes of the ordinary beholder, the lit- 
 tle one found mines of pleasure in them. To her it would not have 
 been half so nice if, instead of the rank grass, the wild-flowers, and 
 raspberry bushes, regular beds and paths had marked the garden. 
 There was nothing jollier than to climb around in the old linden- 
 tree, pull its branches as she liked, and drink the dew from its 
 leaves. 
 
 And although her father sometimes wanted her to sing at most 
 inconvenient moments, he did not compel her to go to the hated 
 school as other children had to. When she had practised un- 
 usually well, he would unlock the great oak chest in his bedroom 
 in which were hidden fabulous splendors. Red, and white and 
 blue, and gold-embroidered gauze and satin dresses, bright flowers, 
 strings of pearls, fans, velvet shoes, gold-spangled veils — such a 
 variety of glittering finery that the little one would clap her hands 
 with pleasure and then begin to trick herself out in the gaudy 
 tinsel. And she knew, naturally, how to adapt its splendor to 
 her dainty face and figure. 
 
 Her father would lean silently against the wall in the mean- 
 time, watching the child with luminous eyes. His trembling 
 hands would fold themselves suppliantly and he would whisper: 
 " Dear God, hear my prayer, and grant me my desire this time." 
 'Not did he realize what a foolish prayer he made to the great and 
 wise God, who pities us in our petty love for the tinsel of earth. 
 
 ^ ijc ^ ijc 4t
 
 102 TINSEL. 
 
 The old man's self-sacrifice for the sake of the child was moat 
 touching. While he himself suffered for necessities, he brought 
 her all sorts of delicate tid-bits. His possessions went to ruin 
 and his own coat was so shabby that his pupils guyed him; but 
 his daughter was dressed in every foible of fashion. It was in- 
 deed a singular sight to see the elegantly clad, symmetrical girl, 
 with her fine-featured face, in the poor room with its shabby 
 furniture, standing beside the old man, who coaxed the last rem- 
 nants of melody out of the quavering piano in accompaniment to 
 her clear young voice. 
 
 Time passed in the shabby little house outside of the quiet 
 little town. The old musician grew older and grayer every day 
 and the linden branches spread wider and closer. When the wind 
 swayed them apart on a summer evening, one might catch a 
 glimpse of a girlish face framed in golden curls. Sometimes 
 the passers-by paused at the garden wall and listened to a voice 
 that seemed to come from the heart of the tree. It was a voice 
 that might move one to anything it willed. Sometimes tears, 
 sometimes the vague longing for things nnattained. The old 
 man's dream seemed to be coming true. The voice had a certain 
 fame even then beyond the quiet little town. 
 
 Once, indeed, a distinguished-looking man came up from the 
 capital and offered the old man an engagement for his daughter. 
 The latter received the visitor in his poor room, and offered him 
 a rickety chair. His beautiful daughter stood expectantly beside 
 the piano. But he told her to leave the room. When the gentle- 
 man, who had followed the girl's movements admiringly, made 
 his offer, the gray old man answered with measured courtesy : 
 
 " I thank you, sir, but my daughter will make her debut in 
 Paris. Paris is the only place for a great gift. We will go there 
 in a few months." 
 
 Again days and weeks passed. The old man began to spend 
 the slender sum he had saved for the long-hoped-for journey to 
 Paris. He sent to the city for a tailor, and had a new suit made 
 for himself. This was really a necessity, even if he had had no 
 intention of going on a journey. He bought beautiful and costly
 
 M. HERBERT. 103 
 
 gowns for his adored daughter. From the days of his own 
 comparative successes he still had memories of what was suitable 
 for a lady, and he spared nothing. More assiduously than ever 
 he practised the newest songs over and over, and until late at 
 night the young voice rang out with untiring strength. 
 
 Then it happened that a tall, aristocratic-looking young man 
 passed the weed-grown garden one evening. The musician's 
 daughter was practising as usual, and the magic of her voice held 
 him fast. He sat down on the crumbling garden wall and listened 
 until she ceased to sing. The next evening he came again, and 
 many evenings after, until at last the desire to see the singer 
 became overmastering. 
 
 But how gain entrance to her rigid seclusion? 
 
 It is easy to find an excuse when one is looking for it. He 
 would ask her father to teach his little niece, whose parents he hap- 
 pened to be visiting. He would go personally instead of writing, 
 and thus he would probably have a chance to see the marvelous 
 singer, and to thank her for the great delight that her song had 
 given him. Further his thoughts did not go, for he had a clean 
 heart, and if his forehead was lined it was because he was a stu- 
 dent and a thinker. His mind was open and receptive for every- 
 thing that was good, much more so than his calm, severe face 
 might have led one to think. 
 
 One bright afternoon he knocked at the worm-eaten door. 
 As no one seemed to hear he pushed it open and entered. Al- 
 though the disorder and the dust that rose at every step gave 
 him a queer feeling, he went on toward the second story, where 
 he suspected the living-rooms to be. He knocked once more at 
 another door, and receiving no answer, entered. 
 
 The room was empty, but the window was open and the 
 linden branches came in through it. Out on a gently swaying 
 branch sat the musician's daughter, her white hands lying idly 
 in her lap, her head leaning against the trunk of the tree. Her 
 reveries seemed pleasant, for she smiled softly to herself as she 
 sat there, flooded by the golden light breaking through the green 
 of the trees.
 
 104 TINSEL. 
 
 The young man stood still a moment — a thought of Undine 
 flashed into his mind. Then he took several steps hesitatingly and 
 bowed low. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said. " I should like to see your 
 father/' and then he came closer to the window. 
 
 At the sound of the strange voice the girl turned her startled 
 eyes toward him. Then as she felt the admiration in his gaze 
 she blushed faintly and answered his greeting with evident em- 
 barrassment. But she quickly regained her composure. Her 
 father was not at home, she told him, and asked him to wait, as 
 he might come any moment. 
 
 And then, with a little teasing touch, she pointed to the win- 
 dow-sill and invited him to sit down, if he was not afraid of 
 falling. He sat down and they continued to talk as if they had 
 known each other for a long time. Thus the astonished old 
 musician found them about an hour later. 
 
 So soft and full of the joy of youth and life, the young voice 
 had never yet rung out as it did on the evening that followed. 
 Never before had it made such an impression upon a human heart 
 as it did upon the young man who sat on the garden wall and 
 listened and listened. When it was all over he rose to his full 
 height and said, " She must be my wife." 
 
 Again the time passed. The summer had gone and winter 
 followed, and now spring was here again, but the young singer 
 had made no hit in Paris, her name had not filled the papers and 
 the journals. His beautiful daughter had not realized the old 
 musician's dream. Instead she had stolen away on the night set 
 for the departure for Paris, after he had tried to force her to 
 give up the idea of marrying her lover. This last disappoint- 
 ment had also been his last grief. 
 
 The old house was empty, the old musician lay in a forgotten 
 grave, and all his work had come to naught.
 
 M. HERBERT. 105 
 
 CHAPTEK IL 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 It was in the middle of October, the time whieh usually 
 brings the mild and melancholy days the German poets love so 
 much. It was the time of the yellow leaves and the red berries, 
 the faint, blue skies and the mellow light, the time of the home- 
 flying birds and of the old woman's summer. 
 
 But this time it did not bring the gentle days. Before the 
 last of summer's roses had attained their full bloom a heavy 
 frost had come and laid its killing touch on the earth. And the 
 wind blew cold and raw, as if it had its delight in the dance of 
 death in which it whirled the blackened leaves through the streets. 
 
 Two women stood on the balcony of a large house in St. 
 Andrew's place. One was slender and delicate, almost too slender 
 and delicate, yet one forgot it when one looked upon her face. 
 It no longer had the beauty of early youth, but instead there 
 was intensity, spirit, and fascination. The other woman was 
 stout, short, and business-like. They seemed to be mistress and 
 maid. 
 
 The wind swept howling around the corner and ruffled the 
 long, blond hair of the younger woman. But she did not seem 
 to notice. She leaned against the railing and stared down into 
 the little garden with its whirling chestnut leaves. Then the 
 older woman spoke to her: 
 
 " Come into the house, my lady," she said. " You will take 
 cold in this sharp air." 
 
 The answer was a short laugh. 
 
 "Take cold, Babette? What are you thinking of? You are 
 beginning to treat me as if I were going into a decline." 
 
 " But don't you intend to sing to-day, my lady ? And you 
 know how much depends on the success of your first appearance 
 here." 
 
 This warning was effective. 
 
 " You are right, Babette. The wind is chilly, and my voice
 
 106 TINSEL. 
 
 must be cherished, for my wliole existence does depend on it. 
 I will go in." 
 
 Inside there was a crackling fire in the grate, and the heavy 
 curtains shut out the sound of the chilling fury without. Never- 
 theless the young woman walked up and down shiveringly sev- 
 eral times, as if just realizing the cold. At last she paused 
 before the grand piano, and pushing aside a stack of music im- 
 patiently, she began to play without notes. The sounds she called 
 forth were wild and feverish at first, but gradually she grew 
 more quiet, and ended with a tender lullaby, while unconsciously 
 almost her lips formed the words and her voice followed the 
 music. Then suddenly she broke down and began to sob. 
 
 " My children, oh, my children ! " she cried. " I am dying 
 with longing for them." 
 
 Babette, who was sitting sewing in a corner of the room, 
 wiped her eyes, but made no attempt to console her young mis- 
 tress. 
 
 " God alone can help her,"' she whispered to herself. 
 
 The young woman rose from the piano and went toward her. 
 
 " Babette," she said. " I must have my children, or I can not 
 sing any more. When I raise my voice for a full sound some- 
 thing chokes me and hurts me so that I feel as if I must cry 
 instead of singing. I wonder how they are, the dear little things ? 
 I wonder if they take good care of them ? " 
 
 She had sat down on the footstool before the elder woman 
 and was looking at her anxiously. The latter stroked the beautiful 
 blond hair gently. 
 
 " The Baron would give his life rather than have any ill 
 happen them," she said, consolingly. 
 
 The young woman shuddered. 
 
 " They will forget me. They will not know me when I see 
 them again, if I ever do. He will take care of that." Then she 
 buried her face in her hands again, and sat there motionless 
 until her servant reminded her of the necessity of dressing for 
 the evening.
 
 M. HERBERT. 107 
 
 The theater was crowded to the last seat on tliis evening. An 
 expectant whisper went from mouth to mouth. 
 
 " They say she is more beautiful than ever," said a young 
 officer in the first row to his neighl)or. " Wore you liere at her 
 first appearance? What verve in her acting, what a ring to her 
 voice! She is superb." 
 
 The man addressed shook his head cynically. 
 
 "Ah, bah, a pretty woman, that's all. AYould have done 
 better to have stayed with her husband and the babies. Spent 
 the whole summer at baths, I hear, trying to cure a distressing 
 hoarseness. Bad sign that. Artists' bays are not always green." 
 
 Then he put up his glass and began to watch the boxes. Up 
 in the balcony the talk was also of the new singer. 
 
 " I Avisli she would be hissed," said an elderly seamstress to 
 her friend. " Yes, indeed, I do ! It would serve her right for 
 leaving such a good husband and two sweet babies for the sake 
 of her precious vanity." 
 
 " I have heard," said the other, " that her voice is nothing 
 to what it was, but she must sing to pay her debts." 
 
 The talk was drowned by the overture of the orchestra, and 
 soon after the curtain rose. The opera was Romeo and Juliet, 
 and when the curtain fell on Juliet a wave of unending applause 
 swept over the house. Behind the scenes friends and acquaint- 
 ances were heaping congratulations on her. But she stood pale 
 and silent, without a word. Before her eyes she saw constantly 
 the broken form of the old man, her father, who would have 
 given half his life to have seen his child's success. And now she 
 had become that for which he had trained her, but his blessing 
 was not on her. She had thrown it away for the sake of a hap- 
 piness that had deserted her too. 
 
 Tremblingly she changed her costume for the next act. When 
 she stood on the stage again she felt no strength in herself to 
 sing. Nevertheless she commenced. But what was this strange 
 pain in her throat? There was a sudden, hoarse discord, her 
 voice broke, and she sank fainting on the stage. 
 
 All night long the storm raged and the wind howled with
 
 108 TINSEL. 
 
 a singularly despairing sound. So at least it seemed to the young 
 woman who lay on her hcd, pale and still, with wide open eyes, as 
 dawn crept through the curtains. At last she sprang up and 
 rang her bell. It seemed a long time before any one came, and 
 she walked up and down restlessly in her long white nightgown, 
 unheeding the chilliness of tlie room. At last Babette came, 
 frightened at the sight of her mistress, shivering and feverish. 
 
 " Get the doctor at once — ask him not to wait," she said, " or 
 better still, tell me right away yourself what ihe doctor said last 
 night about my condition." 
 
 The 5'oung woman's face was so despairing that the maid's 
 eyes filled with tears as she told her that the doctor had said 
 nothing definite, but had looked very anxious. 
 
 When Babette had gone the singer drew a morning robe about 
 her shoulders and went into the reception-room, where her mag- 
 nificent piano stood. She opened it and began to sing. Oh, hap- 
 piness ! Here was her voice, full and clear, with the same affecting 
 charm that had so often entranced her audiences. Higher and 
 higher rose her song in the utter joy of her relief. Then, sud- 
 denly, again that pain, that hoarse discord. Blood streamed 
 from her mouth; once more she fell unconscious. There the 
 doctor and the maid found her. 
 
 The musician's daughter had sung her last song. Whither did 
 the wind carry all the exquisite tones? 
 
 It was evening again. The rain splashed down in torrents, 
 and the last leaves of the chestnut fell noiselessly on the little 
 paved place before a plainly built villa. 
 
 From the high windows of the ground floor light streamed 
 out on the pavement and gave the only sign of life in the house. 
 Inside the lonely room a man sat writing. His pen flew over the 
 sheets, though once in a while he paused and listened, bending 
 his head toward the open door of the adjoining room. Once he 
 rose, and taking the lamp walked on tiptoe into the room. Here 
 he bent down over a little bed in which two children were 
 sleeping.
 
 M. HERBERT. 109 
 
 They were two lovely, golden-haired little beings. The father 
 covered them up carefully and then tiptoed back to his work. His 
 face had a hard, severe expression that made him seem older 
 than he was. The firmly closed mouth, the Grecian nose, the 
 thick dark hair, gray-streaked, gave him a distinguished look. 
 It might even have been fascinating if his coldness had not re- 
 pelled approach. 
 
 There was a time when it seemed as though things might be 
 different with him. That was the time when he brought his 
 young wife home and introduced her to his acquaintances — he 
 hardly had intimate friends. No one had heard of his engage- 
 ment or his marriage; no one had ever seen the young woman 
 before, or heard her simple bourgeois name. But that in itself 
 made her interesting. She was received as a delicious surprise, 
 and her clever conversation, her beauty, and her magical voice 
 were sought for every fashionable gathering. The Baron, 
 her husband, escorted her everywhere, and his eyes followed her 
 every motion. But when she had had two dear little children, 
 and still remained a society beauty, busy tongues began to whisper 
 about her. She was called a brilliant coquette, and so on — and 
 there were good friends ready to tell her husband what people 
 were saying. The Baron listened to them coldly, as if their talk 
 did not touch him, but after that the Baroness did not appear 
 in society so frequently. He left the big house in the city and 
 came out to this lonely little villa with his family. 
 
 His young wife did not understand the change. He himself 
 treated her with coldness. She, spoiled, admired as she had always 
 been, pined and wept in her exile. Why is it that the wind does 
 not carry away evil words as easily as it does good ones? And 
 finally their world found out that the Baroness had left her hus- 
 band and was singing in a distant city. To people the man 
 seemed colder and more distant than ever, but his political 
 speeches were also more brilliant. He was becoming a great 
 statesman.
 
 110 TINSEL. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 The Baron in his lonely room laid down his pen at last, and 
 took up the paper. He read the political news and articles care- 
 fully. Involuntarily almost he turned then to the column on 
 art and drama. After a moment he put the paper down, and 
 his hand trembled a little. He rose and walked up and down 
 the room nervously. He saw himself once more standing out- 
 side the old musician's house and listening to a wonderful voice. 
 She was the old man's idol, who should perfect his dream and 
 bring him honor and wealth and triumph — all that he himself 
 had missed. But the young Baron saw her, and her sunny 
 beauty waked all the depths of his determined nature. He would 
 marry her, and when the old musician refused to give her to 
 him, he took her. He himself was the first to teach her to 
 forget her duties. Would not God hold him responsible if her 
 soul was lost ? 
 
 " You must find her," he told himself. " You must save her, 
 if you can." 
 
 But then the memory of the bitter disappointment that this 
 woman had been to him came over him again, and the evil 
 spirit was uppermost. 
 
 At this moment the bell rang in the vestibule, then a light 
 step hesitatingly approached the children's bedroom. The Baron 
 paid no attention. If he noticed it at all, he may have thought 
 that it was the nurse looking after her charges. 
 
 Perhaps an hour passed thus, when a sound coming from 
 the adjoining room roused him. Turning, he saw that the por- 
 tieres were thrown back, and the slender figure of a woman was 
 standing there. Her face was very pale and her blue eyes were 
 fixed entreatingly upon her husband. In her arms she held the 
 smaller of the two children, which, feeling itself in its mother's 
 arms, snuggled close against her, half asleep.
 
 M. HERBERT. Ill 
 
 The Baron's face darkened and he did not seem to see that 
 she was trembling so that she could hardly hold the child. 
 
 " Do not think that I have come to ask you to take me back," 
 she said. " I have only come to ask for what is dearest to me 
 on earth." 
 
 " What do you want with the child ? " he interrupted, roughly. 
 
 " Do not be so hard and bitter," she said, gently. " I know 
 that when I left your roof I surrendered my right to the children ; 
 but, Eichard, you do not know what I have suffered. I am dying 
 for the sight of them. Have mercy and let me have one — only 
 one of them, that I may do my duty once in my life at least." 
 
 " You have lost your voice and your triumphs. Now that 
 your vanity can no longer satisfy itself, you are thinking of your 
 duties. Xo," he said, angrily. " I will help you. I will give 
 you as much money as yo» want. Go to Italy, travel, rest. You 
 may find your voice again. But I will protect my children. The 
 poison of your frivolity shall not be implanted in them." 
 
 He spoke calmly, but his expression was so unyielding that 
 she made no resistance when he took the child out of her arms 
 and went into the bedroom with it. 
 
 Slowly she turned to the door and went heavily through the 
 hall, into the cold air outside. Her faithful servant was waiting 
 for her. " I have no hope left," she said, as leaning on her maid's 
 arm they went slowly toward the hotel. 
 
 The dark look left the face of the Baron as soon as he re- 
 turned to his workroom and found that his wife was gone. If 
 she had remained he might have softened. But now she was 
 gone, and he knew that she would not return. 
 
 Did he feel remorse now that he had sent away the mother of 
 his children so unmercifully? There was no sign of emotion in 
 his face. His heart suffered, perhaps, for she was his wife and 
 he loved her. The next morning he made inquiries for his wife's 
 address, but without result. He advertised, but there was no 
 reply. He deposited some money in a certain bank for her, but it 
 was not drawn. 
 
 Again time passed, dragging or fleeting, as one takes it. The
 
 112 TINSEL. 
 
 Baron had traveled far and wide, bvit he did not speak of the pur- 
 pose of his journeys. He had searched for his lost ^yiie, but 
 found no trace of her. Now, in the springtime, he returned to 
 his children and found them blooming and healthy under the 
 care of their nurse. But he took no delight in them, for sorrow 
 was eating his heart. His hair was gray and his forehead deeply 
 lined with care. 
 
 One day he was walking indifferently along the streets of his 
 native city when he met his wife's old servant. The blood rushed 
 to his heart, but his face gave no sign. He approached her 
 calmly, and though a thousand questions trembled on his lips, 
 he did not ask a single one. He knew his wife must be living, 
 or else the old woman would be in mourning. 
 
 " Babette," he said to her, " if your mistress wishes it, my 
 children may come to her every day for a few hours. Tell her 
 that." 
 
 " It is too late, sir," was the sad answer. " She has but a few 
 days left to live." 
 
 In a poor room, away up under the roof, the once famous 
 singer lay on a little bed. 
 
 Her nightgown, with its fine lace trimmings, her long, blond 
 hair, which was spread out on the pillow, were in singular con- 
 trast to the shabby room and the deathly pallor of her face. 
 
 Her white, almost transparent-looking hand rested on the 
 arm of her faithful servant. 
 
 " Babette," she said, faintly, her eyes glittering with fever, 
 " I have lost everything and have nothing left in the world. 
 My voice is gone, and my beauty, my youth and my wit; my 
 children are out of my reach. I have thrown away love and disre- 
 garded duty. What have I left to live for ? I do not want to 
 get better — indeed, I do not." 
 
 " Our merciful Father in heaven still lives," said the old 
 woman solemnly. " Go back to your husband. He is ready to 
 take you."
 
 M. HERBERT. 113 
 
 The sick woman raised herself painfully and threw her arms 
 about the nurse's neck. 
 
 " Teach me to pray, Babette. I feel that there is still hope 
 in the mercy of God. But I can not find it alone." 
 
 Quick steps were heard on the stairway, and the sick woman 
 straightened up, listening eagerly. The door opened in a moment 
 and a man came in. His iron reserve was gone and he sank 
 down, overcome by emotion, at the bedside of the dying singer. 
 
 " My poor, unhappy wife," he sobbed aloud. 
 
 She, however, had fallen back into the pillows, unable to 
 think or to speak. All that she could do was to smile happily. 
 He took her hand and held it in his a long time. 
 
 At last she began to whisper softly to him, her great, strangely 
 brilliant eyes fixed on him. " Teach my children to honor my 
 memory. Teach them to pray, and above all things teach them 
 that they have duties, for without duties fulfilled life is a night- 
 mare — ugly and woful." 
 
 At the last words a painful smile passed over her face, a smile 
 which the Baron never forgot. 
 
 " Forgive me everything," the dying woman entreated. 
 
 " You must live," he cried out, despairingly. " You must 
 come back to me and to your children ! " 
 
 "Back?" she breathed faintly. "Back to God." And then 
 all was over. 
 
 " Back to God — and to duty," said the Baron, his voice choked 
 with tears. " That is meant for me, too."
 
 EMMY GIEHRL. 
 
 This writer, whose name is a household word among German 
 children, who know her as " Tante Emmy" (Aunt Emm.y), was 
 born on November 1, 1837, in Regensburg. Her father, Dr. 
 Joseph Aschenbrenner, was a prominent man, who was made 
 Minister of Finance in 1849, and later, as a reward for his services 
 to the state, was given a patent of nobility. There were seven 
 children in the family, but three of them died very young. The 
 remaining four had the advantage of an unusually careful training
 
 and education. Emmy was a delicate child and so was kept away 
 from most of the pleasures and games of childhood, which resulted 
 in a somewhat melancholy tendency to lugubrious poetry and ideas 
 of early death. In 1858 she was married to Assessor Rudolf 
 Giehrl. Her father died in the same year, aged sixty years. In 
 1864 the blow of her own life befell her. She became ill with a 
 spinal and nervous disease, which has since kept her to her bed. 
 In 1874 her husband died, leaving but the one injunction to his 
 wife, to look carefully after ihe training of the children. 
 
 At this time, broken as she might have seemed by bereavements 
 and illness, she began her literary work. Not into imposing 
 volumes, but into little tales, most of them designed especially for 
 the children, flowed her energies. She appeals to children of all 
 ages, the little ones who have scarcely mastered the letters, and 
 the old ones who are playing with their grandchildren. There is a 
 touch in her stories that wins the heart at every age. A collection 
 of her complete works has been published in eight volumes. One 
 of her children's annuals has been issued for seventeen years, 
 another one for fifteen. 
 
 There are fairy tales, stories, novels, picture bc^ks, and plays. 
 Her " Kreuzesblijthen," a book of devotions, has appeared in ten 
 editions and been translated into several languages as well as 
 another work "Die Verlobten," a book for girls, especially brides. 
 Among her long list of stories the following are especially worthy of 
 mention: "Die Sternsanger, " " Meister Fridolin " (translated into 
 English); "In Herben Zeiten," "Das junge Familienhaupt, " 
 "Rudolf," "Maria Hilf," "Wahrheit und Erfindung," "Die 
 Dorfhexe." Wherever her books have appeared, they have won 
 their way by their pre-eminent quality of lovableness.
 
 CbUC>ren ot tvbav^, 
 
 BY EMMY GIEHRL. 
 
 On the last day of the month of April several Sisters were 
 busily making garlands and arranging flowers for the May de- 
 votions, which were to begin next day in the chapel of the city 
 orphan asylum. That sort of work is dear to the devout heart, 
 for through it the childlike fancy, as well as the generosity that 
 shrinks from no sacrifice for the honor of God and His saints, 
 seems best expressed. It has been claimed that the first impulse 
 to the May devotions was given by a child, and there is, indeed, 
 a great truth underlying that claim. Our relations to Mary when 
 rightly considered must be those of a child to its mother. As 
 the child delights in decorating the picture of its absent mother, 
 so we too place the first fruits of spring, flowers and blossoms, at 
 Mary's feet. When we go to the May devotions we are like good 
 children who greet their tenderly beloved mother and delight her 
 with their offerings and prayers. 
 
 "Do please hand me that branch. Sister Benigna," said a 
 girl's soft voice. " All the bushes in the convent garden have 
 to help us in the praise of our dear Mother, Just see the little 
 buds. They look like tiny roses between the pale green leaves." 
 
 "But then you have remarkably good taste, too, my child," 
 the Sister answered, and looked smilingly down at the young girl, 
 who, with eagerly flushed face and deft hands was preparing the 
 decorations for a statue of Our Lady of Victory, while a young 
 friend was helping her. 
 
 Neither of the girls was more than eighteen years old, and 
 both were in fashionable attire. They therefore did not belong 
 
 117
 
 118 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 to the Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul, who had charge of the 
 city orphan asylum and its pupils. Nevertheless they seemed very 
 much at home here, where in truth they went in and out nearly 
 every day. 
 
 " Oh, you give us the greatest pleasure, dear Sister, when 
 3'ou just let us help you. Isn't it so, Elizabeth?" 
 
 The other girl nodded affirmatively. " Indeed it is, Marianne, 
 for the chapel of the asylum is noted for its tasteful decorations 
 and its beautiful May devotions." 
 
 " The praise for that belongs to Miss von Marten," Sister 
 Benigna answered, modestly. " She is always doing something 
 for our humble chapel and helping us out when our little means 
 fall short. And the dear Mother in heaven will pour out graces 
 over her in reward." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Marianne," said her friend, teasingly. " You will 
 get your wish and I shall soon see you here in a little cap as 
 postulant." 
 
 " May God grant it," the young girl sighed, and a shadow 
 flitted over her bright face. " And you, Elizabeth ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, as your devoted friend, I'll have to follow you 
 wherever you go." 
 
 " Indeed," said Sister Benigna, gently, " then our Mistress 
 of Novices is to be congratulated on getting two such fine novices 
 at once." 
 
 The girls smiled. " How peaceful it is in these quiet rooms," 
 said Marianne. " I really believe that the true love of God could 
 make a paradise out of a prison. I feel that in such a place self- 
 ish desires must perish and the storms of life end." 
 
 " That is true, my child," Sister Benigna answered, " but only 
 in unison with God and His holy will." 
 
 " You know, of course. Sister Benigna, that I am a child of 
 Mary ? " Marianne asked. " I was dedicated to Mary on the first 
 day of my life and I never wore anything but blue and white 
 until I was twelve years old. After my first communion I began 
 to wear other colors. At that time I had a heavy care in my 
 heart."
 
 EMMY aiEHRL. 119 
 
 " A h^avy care at twelve years, child, and in your circum- 
 stances ? " Sister Benigna repeated. 
 
 " And yet it was so. Do you believe in a soul-union — that 
 is spiritual communication, with those whom we love especially ? " 
 
 " I do not understand you altogether." 
 
 " Well then, I shall tell you. My mother had a friend when 
 she was young who was like her other self to her. They were 
 educated in the same academy, became Children of Mary on the 
 same day, and promised each other to be true to the grace of 
 being Children of Mary all their lives. They exchanged white 
 roses, which they pressed and placed in their prayer-books, that 
 the sight of them might always remind them of Mary the most 
 pure. Later they were separated. My mother married and did 
 not hear anything for years of that other Marianne after whom 
 I was named, and who had been so dear to her. But a wonderful 
 Providence caused me to meet her when I was still a little girl. 
 One day when I was out walking I met a strange, pale lady, who 
 spoke to me. When I told my dear mother about her afterward 
 and described her, some intuition seemed to tell her that this was 
 surely her lost friend. She had seemed to be very unhappy, and my 
 mother begged me to pray a great deal for her, so that she might 
 not be unhappy for all eternity. 
 
 " I prayed often and long for poor Marianne, on whose account 
 my mother grieved so much, and whom, in spite of my youth, 
 I could not forget myself. I somehow understood that it was 
 the question of the eternal happiness or eternal misery of a soul, 
 and I constantly prayed to Mary to help her child. But just 
 before my first communion I had a strange dream. The Blessed 
 Virgin bowed down from the altar of the church which I visited 
 every day and said to me: 
 
 " ' Marianne, do you really love me very much ? ' 
 
 " ^ Oh, yes, yes,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Very well, then. Work for souls.' 
 
 " ' What shall I do ? ' I asked^ for I did not understand what 
 she really meant. 
 
 " ' He who truly loves souls will give his life for their salva-
 
 120 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 tion, as my divine Son gave His for the salvation of mankind. 
 Are you prepared for such a sacrifice ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes/ I said, and woke. But when I thought about my beau- 
 tiful dream it seemed to me that it could only mean that I was 
 to give up my life for the unhappy Marianne, and I felt I was 
 ready to do so. I still remember how pale my dear mother's face 
 grew when I told her that I had prayed to God to let me die to 
 save her lost friend. I did not tell her of the dream, partly be- 
 cause I was too timid, and partly because I saw that it would 
 only make her more sad. As it was she had drawn me to her, 
 and I heard her whisper : ' Oh, God, not that, not that.' 
 
 " Strange to say the lost Marianne came to us shortly before 
 her death, was reconciled to God, and died quietly and peacefully 
 in our house. Her last word was a blessing for me and a prayer 
 of thanks for the grace that had made her a Child of Mary. Of 
 my promised sacrifice for her sake she never heard anything, 
 and God did not accept it either, although I was in earnest about 
 it. Can it be that it has been saved up for me for some later 
 time ? " 
 
 " If the hour should come for it, my child," said Sister 
 Benigna, " the divine love will give you the strength and grace 
 you may need to make it." 
 
 While they were still talking the vesper bell rang in the 
 community part of the asylum and the two girls said good-by 
 and started homeward. 
 
 II. 
 
 The residence of Doctor von Marten, who had a prominent 
 position at the university of the capital, was in the suburbs of 
 the city, and Elizabeth and Marianne turned in that direction. 
 
 Suddenly Elizabeth stood still and said: 
 
 " Marianne, what's wrong with you ? I have noticed for some 
 time that you are not as gay as usual, and to-day, when you were 
 talking to Sister Benigna, I saw that you had tears in your eyes 
 and heard you sighing. Tell me, dear, what's worrying you ? " 
 
 Marianne pressed her friend's hand. " Help me pray, dear/*
 
 EMMY OIEHRL. 121 
 
 she wliispcrcd, "pray to Mary, the refuge of sinners. You are 
 a Child of Mary^ too, and have as much right to her heart ^nd 
 help as I have. Perhaps she will reward our trust." 
 
 " surely I will, Marianne. But who is it that you are anx- 
 ious about ? Your father or your mother ? " 
 
 " Oh, about them, too. But first my brother. Leo, you know, 
 has been a good boy right along. But lately he has gotten into 
 bad company and he will succumb to its influence I am afraid 
 if the Blessed Mother does not work a miracle of grace. Father 
 and mother have talked to him, and he has promised several times 
 to do better. But the temptation is stronger than his will and so 
 he goes on and on, and my poor mother's heart is breaking." 
 
 " Poor Marianne, how sorry I am for you ! Though I guessed 
 myself that everything was not well with Leo. He keeps out of 
 my way now, though he used to be like a brother to me. The 
 poor fellow ! But just have courage. We must pray for him very 
 earnestly and the Blessed Mother will not desert us." 
 
 Talking thus they had reached Marianne's home. Elizabeth 
 went on and turned into the next side street. When Marianne came 
 into her mother's room she found her crying. The young girl's 
 mind was so full of concern about her brother that she guessed 
 instinctively what was the cause of her mother's grief. 
 
 She took off her hat and putting both her arms around her 
 mother said : " Sweetest mother, you are crying. Can't your little 
 girl know what is troubling you ? " 
 
 Sadly the mother answered : " Do not ask, my dear child. 
 You are too young for such things." 
 
 " Too young ? " said Marianne, gently. " I am eighteen years 
 old, and yet too young to share your griefs ? Oh, you do not mean 
 that. Do you remember how, when I was still a little girl, you 
 took me into your confidence about your wayward friend ? Now, 
 when it is a question of one who is so dear to both of us, do not 
 say that I am too young." 
 
 " You guess then ? " and the mother's delicate and still beau- 
 tiful face flushed painfully. The mother-heart is always the 
 Bame, suffering for and with the erring child to the last moment.
 
 132 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 Instead of further answer Marianne kissed her mother several 
 times most tenderly and sat down beside her and talked to her, 
 until at last the poor mother could no longer deny herself the 
 consolation of her daughter's confidence and sympathy. Then 
 they sat for a long time, considering what they might do and 
 encouraging each other to trust in God. 
 
 " You dedicated me to Mary," said Marianne. " You shared 
 your rights as my mother with the Blessed Virgin and she can 
 not desert us in our tribulation. To-morrow is the first day of 
 May, and we will give ourselves into her care and service." 
 
 III. 
 
 Day after day the beautiful May devotions were held in the 
 convent chapel, and every day Marianne's mother and the two 
 girls attended. Elizabeth was an orphan and lived in her guar- 
 dian's house, but was altogether devoted to Marianne's mother, 
 who in turn treated her almost as if she were her own child. The 
 wash had often come up in the older woman's heart that some 
 day Elizabeth might be more than a friend and come into the 
 family as Leo's wife. But this sweet dream had been destroyed 
 too by Leo's dissipation, and no one dared whisper of its realiza- 
 tion any more. Of late, indeed, Elizabeth had frequently aston- 
 ished her friends by saying that she shared Marianne's inclination 
 to a religious life, and would some time enter the same Order 
 which Marianne might decide to enter. 
 
 A few days after the conversation between Marianne and her 
 mother the former went to her brother and began to talk to him 
 gently about his wild ways, but he repulsed her impatiently. 
 
 " If you can't do anything but whine and reproach me," Leo 
 said, "you needn't talk to me at all. I have all the reproaches 
 and blues I want of my own and don't need your tearful face to 
 remind me of my miseries." 
 
 " Leo, how you talk to me, your sister, your little play- 
 mate." 
 
 "Let me be, Marianne. I can stand anything better than 
 these naggings and reproaches, that don't do any good, anyway."
 
 EMMY OIEHRL. 123 
 
 " But, my dear brother, just think what misery you are caus- 
 ing our parents, you who used to be so good and industrious and 
 their pride and joy. And, now — won't you listen to nic — let me 
 warn you. Leave your present friends, come and stay with us 
 again, and I promise you that no reproach shall reach you, no 
 word ever allude to anything you have done in the past. Only 
 come, Leo." 
 
 To win him back was the dearest thought of her days, the 
 care of her nights. And the tears filled her eyes now as she 
 talked to him and held out her hands to him. She could not 
 forget the beautiful time when they had all lived together in 
 sweet and peaceful companionship. She took Leo's hand and held 
 it fast. She looked up at him so imploringly as she waited for his 
 answer that she seemed almost irresistible. Her brother was vis- 
 ibly moved. He had a good heart, but he had grown careless 
 through his dissipated habits, though betweentimes he had many 
 a night of conscience-stricken remorse, and now he was fair 
 enough to see that she was right and he altogether wrong. For 
 an instant his good angel seemed to conquer. His eyes grew moist 
 and he answered gently: 
 
 " Forgive mc, Marianne, if I was cross. I know that I am a 
 miserable, unworthy outcast, who does not deserve that such a 
 good creature as you are should cry over him. But what can I 
 do? I don't know where to turn. I have given my word of 
 honor and I have to have some money within twelve hours, and 
 you know that father will not give me any more." 
 
 " Oh, but he has done so much for you already, brother dear. 
 You understand — " 
 
 " No," he said, becoming bitter again. " I do not understand 
 how he can let his son go down to disgrace rather than help him 
 with a few dollars." 
 
 " How can you talk like that, Leo ? Have you forgotten the 
 many sacrifices we have all made for you ? " 
 
 " Not at all. But in the end the money will be ours anyway, 
 and so it's all the same whether we get it a few years sooner or 
 later."
 
 134 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 " Leo ! Surely you do not mean to steal from father ? For 
 heaven's sake tell me is there no way out of the trouble ? " 
 
 " Can you help me ? " 
 
 " How much do you need ? " 
 
 " About $75." 
 
 " That is a good deal for me to raise, brother." 
 
 " Then you can't give it to me ? " 
 
 Marianne hesitated, then she said with a trembling voioe : 
 
 " I will try this once more, for our dear parents' sake. But it 
 is the last time, Leo." 
 
 " Oh, you dear, good Marianne," he called out in delight, 
 "■ Help me just this once more and you shall be satisfied with me 
 in the future." His eyes shone. The relief from his difficulties 
 brightened him up. But Marianne herself went away heavy- 
 hearted. She felt and knew only too well that their meeting, 
 as so many times before, had resulted but in Leo asking her for 
 more money. He had made the same promises as enthusiastically 
 each time, and, oh, how little he had kept them ! 
 
 With shaking hands she opened her little cabinet, which con- 
 tained the humble savings that were her own, and were all which 
 she had the right to dispose of. She had made such sweet plans 
 as to their use. If the grace of God smoothed the way to the 
 convent for her, she meant to give this money as dowry for ft 
 poor serving-maid, who likewise wished to devote herself to the 
 Lord. But she gave up even this cherished plan for her brother's 
 sake, for in her innocence and simplicity she still hoped that he 
 might do better if given one more chance. And how happy her 
 father and mother would be in that event ! She took the money 
 resolutely and went back to Leo's room with it. 
 
 " Here is what you asked for. But now keep your word." 
 
 " You will see," he answered, confidently. 
 
 He kissed her delightedly, called her his sweet sister, his good 
 angel, and so on, all the pretty titles with which he used to please 
 her when they were younger, and nothing had yet come between 
 them. And Marianne believed in him and hoped for the best 
 once more. For nobody is easier to deceive than a person who is
 
 EMMY GIEHRL. 125 
 
 himself good and honest and noble. He Judges the world by 
 himself, and trusts others, because he expects only what is worthy 
 of trust from others. On the other hand it is infinitely hard, too, 
 to stop in a downward course and to turn back to better things, 
 when habit and associations tempt at every step. 
 
 For several days Leo acted as though he really meant to carry 
 out his good resolutions and become a better man. He stayed 
 at home evenings and talked pleasantly with his father and 
 mother. The latter was most happy and pleased by the change. 
 In union with her daughter she prayed with special fervor now to 
 the Blessed Virgin out of gratitude for her son's reformed life. 
 But unhappily these pleasant conditions did not last very long. 
 Our dear Lord often tests our trust in Him in the most unusual 
 ways and seems to deny even the most urgent prayers, although 
 they may be in the best cause and the suppliant truly pious. Ho 
 wishes not only to prove our patience and our faith in His power, 
 but also to show us His mercy and His forbearance by waiting 
 to see whether the erring heart will not at last turn back to Him 
 of itself. 
 
 Thus the month of May had almost passed, when one morn- 
 ing the maid came running out of the young man's room and 
 gave the frightened parents a letter which she had found there. 
 It said briefly : 
 
 " My dear parents, forgive your unhappy son the pain I must 
 cause you. I have fought a duel and fatally wounded my op- 
 ponent. So I must leave and can not return if I do not want 
 to get into the hands of the police. Therefore it may be many 
 years before I can see you again. Do not deny me then the only 
 thing that remains to me in my terrible plight — your blessing 
 and your sympathy." 
 
 There was notliing in the letter to show where Leo had gone, 
 and so it is easy to understand how terrible were the anxiety and 
 distress of his poor parents. 
 
 At last the final evening of the May devotions had arrived. 
 The overflowing chapel at the asylum was slowly emptying, and 
 the sexton was putting out the candles on the altars and rattling
 
 126 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 his keys — but still three women knelt, lost in prayer, and oblivious 
 to all that was going on about them. Pale as death, the tear- 
 dimmed eyes raised to the statue of the Queen of heaven, the 
 oldest of the women poured out her woe to her who understands 
 better than we human beings the pangs of a mother's heart. The 
 two young girls beside her buried their faces in their hands and 
 sobbed audibly. The griefs of youth are still demonstrative 
 and uncurbed as youth itself, and M^e must begin to grow old 
 before we can bury one sweet hope after another without crying 
 out aloud. 
 
 Just then one of the girls felt a gentle touch on her arm. 
 
 " Marianne, my poor, dear child ! " It was Sister Benigna, 
 who had come to lock the street door of the chapel and had recog- 
 nized Madame von Marten and her daughter and their friend 
 Elizabeth in the belated group. Her questioning glance rested on 
 Marianne's tear-stained face. 
 
 " Sister Benigna ! My brother, our poor Leo ! " Marianne 
 sobbed. 
 
 " What is the matter with him ? Is he dead ? " 
 
 " No, thank God," Elizabeth interrupted, but Marianne con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Oh, it is almost worse than death. He fought a duel and has 
 left the country ! " 
 
 " Then we must commend him to the Blessed Mother, and 
 pray that he will come back." 
 
 " Yes, dear Sister, we must all do that," the mother, who 
 had risen from her knees, said now : " I have just done so myself, 
 and feel that our Mother in heaven will not forsake the poor, mis- 
 guided boy. Come, children, let us have faith and courage. 
 Everything will yet be well. Let us go home now to father." 
 
 " Your intention shall be ours too," Sister Benigna said, con- 
 solingly, as she followed the party to the door. 
 
 " Mother," whispered Marianne, when they were outside, tak- 
 ing her mother's hand tenderly in hers, " where do you get your 
 trust and your strength ? " 
 
 "It comes from faith in God's love and mercy, and the con-
 
 EMMY GIEHRL. 127 
 
 viction that Mary is powerful to help us," was the beautiful an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I am a Child of Mary, like you," Marianne answered. " 1 
 must learn from you to have a firm faith." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Two years had passed. How many occurrences, how much 
 joy and happiness, but how much sorrow and sadness, too, that 
 span of time may encompass. 
 
 Never a word had been heard from the self-exiled Leo. If 
 Leo was still in Europe at all, he had probably taken another 
 name so as to escape recognition. His opponent in the duel did 
 not die, but had, on the contrary, recovered very rapidly. In a 
 way unintelligible to strangers, yet perfectly plain to Leo if he 
 should see it, Leo's father had published this fact in all the most 
 prominent papers of the continent. After that his family felt 
 that he would surely return, but he did not. Unfortunately the 
 duel was really only a welcome pretext for flight, as it soon be- 
 came plain that the young man had many debtors, and this was 
 one way of getting away from them. The honorable name of his 
 parents and grandparents should not be stained by perfidious 
 action, and so the old doctor sacrificed a substantial part of his 
 fortune in order to satisfy the claims of those who might other- 
 wise have suffered by his son's carelessness. Whoever had known 
 the amiable and universally respected physician in earlier days 
 and saw him now must have been painfully impressed by the 
 change that the boy's conduct had wrought. The erect shoulders 
 had drooped, the springing gait had become slow, and the curly 
 dark hair was streaked with gray. His kindly face had grown 
 weary and worn-looking. His wife, too, was as broken as he, 
 though in her mother love still fought against the evidences of 
 the facts and fed itself day by day with the hope that in some 
 way Leo would come back. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Marianne suffered not least under the burden of grief that had 
 fallen on the family. To be sure she preserved a brave front,
 
 128 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 ISTever a complaint crossed her lips, and whenever Leo was men- 
 tioned she had kindly words and excuses for him. She exerted 
 herself daily to divert her father and cheer up her mother. The 
 only one to whom she sometimes revealed her true feelings was 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 One day she had a long conversation with Sister Benigna, to 
 whom she poured out her innermost soul. 
 
 " You see, dear Sister, how I am torn by doubts. I do not 
 know what I ought to do, nor how. On one side is my long- 
 standing desire to enter the religious life and the heavenly Bride- 
 groom seems to call me more urgently every day. On the other 
 are my beloved parents, bowed down in grief and sorrow, and 
 alone on earth but for me. How can I leave them without dis- 
 obeying the Divine Commandment to love our parents? I feel 
 as if I were divided into two different persons, each struggling 
 against the other." 
 
 " My child," the bride of Christ responded gently, " there are 
 indeed many times in this life when we need the inspiration of 
 the Holy Ghost in order to be reconciled to and to understand 
 what is right for us to do. Here, however, the way is clear before 
 you — it is the straight path of filial duty. You know that the 
 convent rarely waives parental sanction, and ordinarily it is one 
 of the conditions for reception. All your zeal would be displeas- 
 ing to God if you were to try to combine the life of a religious 
 Avith disobedience toward your parents." 
 
 " I tell myself that. But then again there are hours when 
 I seem to hear a voice that says — oh, so plainly ! — ' leave all and 
 follow Me.' " 
 
 " In this case, child, that is but a temptation which you must 
 put behind you. Our self-love and our self-will come to the sur- 
 face under all conditions and in all forms, but the will of God 
 alone is to be considered. The Christian charity that you would 
 vow to exercise toward suffering humanity if you entered our 
 Order, it is now your duty to exercise toward your stricken par- 
 ents, and from this sacrifice the same merits, the same blessings, 
 and the same graces will come to you."
 
 EMMY GIEHRL. 129 
 
 " Oh, Sister Benigna ! " sobbed the girl, burying her face in 
 her hands. It is always hard to give up a cherished hope, and 
 Marianne had secretly given herself up to the thought of her 
 vocation for many years. Yet now she saw that her first duty 
 was to her parents. 
 
 " And there is no hope that I may ever follow the beautiful, 
 longed-for vocation ? " she asked for the last time. Sister 
 Benigna silently shook her head and took the girl's hand and 
 led her to the chapel. There both knelt in prayer for about a half 
 hour. When they rose Sister Benigna said, smiling through her 
 tears : " It is a sacrifice for me, too, for I was looking forward 
 to your coming to us. But the holy will of God be praised and 
 adored. Have faith, my child. Our Lord will know how to get 
 His bride when He needs her." 
 
 The part hardest for Marianne w'as over, and her holy angel 
 carried her sacrifice to the throne of the Almighty. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Franco-Prussian war was on, and was bringing fear and 
 sorrow to countless families. In the common misery the individ- 
 ual suffering disappeared. Now there were many parents mourn- 
 ing the loss of a son, though the patriotic death for home and 
 country w^as less bitter than the wordless disappearance of the 
 erring. The one was a hallowed sorrow, but the other could not 
 well be told nor shared. 
 
 But even this grief had been softened for the Martens in their 
 sympathy for the general woe. Everywhere funds were being 
 raised for help and for practical w^orks of mercy. Even the poor- 
 est gave his little contribution to help the defenders of the Father- 
 land. Every w^ek new hospital trains set out for the scene of 
 battle with Sisters and nurses and doctors to help the wounded 
 and ease their sufferings. 
 
 The hospitals of the city had sent all the Sisters they could 
 spare to France. Under their direction and with them a great 
 number of women and girls had gone as nurses. ^lany an un- 
 dreamed of talent for nursing and for other self-sacrifice was
 
 130 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 thus developed, and what was wanting in practise was speedily 
 made up by devotion and eagerness to serve. 
 
 The Martens did not want to be behind in helping now, and 
 Marianne, who had but timidly ventured to ask permission to 
 join a hospital train, had not only met with no remonstrance, 
 but was even encouraged. She was to go to a hospital at Ver- 
 sailles under the direction of Sister Benigna, and she was re- 
 joiced that she could thus far, at least, follow her beloved voca- 
 tion. She went to Elizabeth and begged her to take her place 
 with her parents until she came back. 
 
 Then she set out for France, followed by the blessings and 
 prayers of her parents. 
 
 We are at one of the hospitals in Versailles. The fierceness 
 of war is over and the power of love now has play. The Daugh- 
 ters of St. Vincent, those heroines in the garb of peace, are tire- 
 less in their ministrations to the pain-racked victims of the ter- 
 rible conflict. Young girls as well as older women are helping 
 them. The Sisters and nurses move about noiselessly in the airy 
 apartment. Only here and there the moaning of the wounded 
 and dying is heard. 
 
 Marianne von Marten is sitting at one of the beds and holding 
 the hand of a young soldier. His head is bandaged, so also his 
 arm. The ghastly pallor tells of great loss of blood. For three 
 weeks the young patient has been fighting death, but a hardy 
 constitution at last won the day. All these days and nights 
 Marianne barely left his bedside, and stood by him nobly in the 
 fight against the grave. 
 
 We have often read that the good God does not let Himself 
 be outdone in generosity by His creatures, and that He especially 
 blesses those sacrifices which we wring from our self will. The 
 heart of the little nurse overflowed on this day with purest hap- 
 piness. The young soldier was Leo, the mourned and lost brother. 
 
 To escape punishment he had fled under an assumed name 
 from his parents' house, for he believed himself to be the mur- 
 derer of his opponent. Soon afterward, however, he found the 
 notice inserted by his father, which gave him peace of mind at
 
 EMMY OIEHRL. 181 
 
 least in one direction. But he was still afraid of his many credi- 
 tors, and so stayed away. At first he made a scant living by 
 clerical work. But after a while he drifted into Hamburg, and 
 here his tendencies brought him into gambling places. At first 
 he won over and over again. Then growing more bold he ven- 
 tured larger and larger sums, and at last lost all his winnings at 
 one sitting. Then he pawned his watch, a ring — everything he 
 could, and left Hamburg a beggar. And again he went to work, 
 miserably, at anything he could get. 
 
 His conscience often reproached him. Sometimes, too, he was 
 tempted to suicide, but some mysterious force seemed ever to 
 hold him back. Was it the power of parental love? Was it his 
 mother's prayer ? At any rate he did not yield. 
 
 Often, too, he yearned to go home, to beg forgiveness of his 
 father, but a false pride held him back. The hour of grace had 
 not yet arrived. Then the war with France broke out — the war 
 that waked the enthusiasm of patriotism in the heart of every 
 man. Leo at once enlisted. But war is no child's play. It is 
 bitter, terrible, bloody, earnest. Over and over again Leo was 
 face to face with death, and it brought home to him the follies 
 of his misspent life. At the siege of Paris he was dangerously 
 wounded. The good Sisters made every effort to provide at least 
 the last consolations for his poor soul, but he lay in the delirium 
 of fever, racked by pain, tortured by phantasies of fear and re- 
 morse. 
 
 When at last his senses came back to him there was a young 
 nurse at his bedside — and she, oh, joy, was his own sister, Mari- 
 anne. She brought consolation and peace to him. She assured 
 him of his parents' love and forgiveness, and the grace of God 
 completed the conversion. 
 
 On the next day — it was a Saturday, the day dedicated to the 
 Blessed Mother — he made a good confession and received the 
 last sacraments. But the crisis had passed. Leo recovered not 
 only physically, but even more so spiritually. 
 
 The Superior of the hospital. Sister Benigna, watched over 
 the brother and sister like a mother, and took the first opportunity
 
 132 CHILDREN OF MARY. 
 
 to send them back to Germany in safety. Leo would have an 
 easier and pleasanter chance for complete recovery at home — 
 among old surroundings. 
 
 Marianne had only written to her parents twice. The first 
 time she said: 
 
 " I arrived safely in Versailles and have found Leo. He is 
 seriously wounded, but we have hopes of his recovery." 
 
 Oh, how the loving and anxious hearts of the parents were 
 filled with joy and gratitude at this message ! How they praised 
 the mysterious ways of Providence ! The mother knelt before 
 the image of the Blessed Virgin in the convent chapel and prayed : 
 " You will have mercy on me, oh, Mother of grace ! You will 
 not let me find my son only to take him away again." And be- 
 side her Elizabeth knelt and wept for joy and pain. 
 
 The second message said : " Leo is recovering. We will come 
 in eight days." 
 
 And now he is with his own again. Everything is forgiven 
 and forgotten — no, not everything. They want to remember the 
 miracles of divine grace forever. The flush of health is return- 
 ing to Leo's cheeks. He will soon be well and strong again, and 
 will then make up for lost time. He learned many things out 
 in the world among strangers, and has done ample penance for 
 the follies of his early youth. Now, with the help of God, he 
 will lead a different life. 
 
 His parents are rejuvenated in their joy, for happiness and 
 peace of mind are medicines which never miss their effect. As 
 soon as the Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul return from Franco, 
 Marianne will renounce the world and put on the habit of a 
 novice in the beloved Order toward which her heart has been 
 turning for years. As a daughter of the great saint she may 
 satisfy her generous heart and offer her life daily for the salva- 
 tion and service of others, as she desired to do even in her child- 
 hood. She may not even grieve now at leaving her parents, for 
 Elizabeth has taken earnest counsel with herself and has recog- 
 nized that she has no true religious vocation. Her desire was to
 
 EMMY QIEHRL. 133 
 
 be with Marianne, and one does not go into the convent for the 
 sake of friendship. God wants the whole heart. 
 
 Elizabeth's heart is really no longer, her own. She has given 
 it to Leo, and will, as a pious wife and mother, try to do her 
 duty in the world and replace Marianne in the house of her 
 parents. 
 
 Thus God brings everything to a blessed end, in His own good 
 time, and Mary's care surely leads her children aright.
 
 DR. HERMAN CARDAUNS. 
 
 (H. Kenier.) 
 
 Under the pen name of H. Kerner, Dr. Herman Cardauns, 
 the brilUant managing editor of the Kolnische Volkszeiiung, has 
 maae an enviable reputation in pure literature. The training of his 
 newspaper life and his historical studies have resulted in an un- 
 usual mastery of interesting details. He has the quality of true 
 genius — to eliminate the non-essential and to bring out his scenes 
 and characters with a few lines and a touch here and there. Old 
 times and old things are vivified and brought to the eye of the 
 present, full of color and reality. His novels are crowded with 
 fascinating incident and his style is easy and flowing. The name 
 of Kerner may fairly be placed beside that of Riehl, the most 
 noted of recent German historical novelists. 
 
 Herman Cardauns was born on April 8, 1847, in Cologne. 
 From 1864-1869 he studied at Bonn, Munich, and Gottingen. 
 In 1868 he passed the government examination for a professor- 
 ship and was tentatively engaged at a Cologne high school during 
 1868-1870. At the same time he was also engaged as assistant 
 in the division for historical research of tne Royal Bavarian 
 Academy of Sciences. It was while acting in this capacity that 
 he published his volumes on old Cologne. (Leipzig, 1874-77.) 
 
 Towards the close of 1872 he became /r/Vw/ docent at Bonn, 
 and lectured reguiarly on the history of the Middle Ages and the 
 history of the Rhine countries. In 1876 he became managing 
 editor of the Volkszeifiini^ of Cologne, the ablest and most in- 
 fluential organ of the Centre, or Catholic party, of Germany. In 
 spite of his exhausting editorial activities, he managed to find 
 time for nistorical and literary labors. He published works on the
 
 life of Alexander III., of Bishop Conrad von Hochstaden, of Mary 
 Stuart, of the Jesuit Father Spee, on the fairy tales of Clemens 
 Brentano, and so on. Since 1886 he has been publishing the 
 papers of the Gorres Society, organized for the promotion of 
 Catholic truth in Germany. In 1891 he became the general 
 secretary of the Society, which office he has held ever since 
 His most important literary works are: '"Die Erzahlung Walters 
 des Erzpoeten," "Die Abendteuer des Johannes Reusch," and 
 " Der Stadtschreiber von Koln.' His numerous short stories are 
 scattered through the German periodicals, av»aiting collection and 
 publication in book form. From 1895 to 1899 Dr. Cardauns was 
 a member of the Town Council of Cologne. He is as noted as 
 a lecturer as he is as a writer
 
 Ube 6oo& 2)ean ]Ensfric&. 
 
 A Story of the Twelfth Century. 
 
 BY DR. H. CARDAUNS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 between ST. Mary's and home. 
 
 The church bells of Cologne were just ringing for the Angelus, 
 as Dean Ensfried of St. Andrew's came down the steps leading to 
 the parish-house of St. Mary's as fast as their ice-smooth surface 
 and his old legs permitted. He was seventy years old — a thin, 
 shrunken little mau. The pastor of St. Mary's, who was a friend 
 of his, had buttoned up his fur cloak for him, and pulled the cap 
 over his ears, for it was bitterly cold. But when the Dean 
 heard the bells he took off the cap his friend had adjusted so 
 carefully, and knelt for the Angelus. The years had left deep 
 lines in his face, but his head was still fine and beautiful in its 
 outlines, perhaps even more so than when he was younger. It 
 was long since he needed to shave for the tonsure. All there was 
 left of his once thick hair was a fringe of delicate white curls 
 around the crown. He had bright red cheeks, and about the 
 shrunken mouth and in the blue eyes there was a look of benevo- 
 lence and gentleness, so that one felt at the first glance that he 
 was surely a good man. 
 
 " It is cold indeed," said Ensfried, as he pulled the cap over 
 his ears again. "What will the poor people do during this hard 
 winter, dear Lord? The sparrows fall frozen from the roofs; 
 many a child of God is sitting miserably in a cold and drafty 
 room, while we, Thy sinful servants, are lounging beside the warm 
 fire," He sighed deeply, and went along for a little way, his 
 
 1*7
 
 138 THE GOOD DEAN EN8FRIED. 
 
 kind face shadowed at the sorrowful thought. Then he tight- 
 ened his lips together, and nodded vigorously as if in protesta- 
 tion. " If I could only get at my wood ! " he said aloud. " But 
 Monica has the keys and will not give them to me. She says that 
 if she did we would not have any ourselves. How can the woman 
 be so foolish? Hasn't she been my cook these twenty years? 
 Just wait, you old kitchen terror, I'll fix you ! " 
 
 While he was going on in this way Ensf ried had descended the 
 narrow street that led from the Duck Pool to the Cat's Back — 
 the stretch now called E intrachtstrasse. It ran along beside the 
 fine old Church of St. Mary's, though there is only a little chapel 
 there at the present time. Here the boys of the neighborhood 
 were coasting, and sliding down hill to their hearts' delight. 
 When they saw the Dean they quickly cleared the track. Ensfried 
 had hardly put his foot upon the strip which they had worn 
 glass-like than he slipped and would have gone over backward 
 but that a stocky wight caught him at the last moment. 
 
 " Steady now, your reverence," he said, and carefully helped 
 Ensfried to regain his footing. " This time you almost went 
 over. Will you get out of the way?" he screamed at the boys. 
 " You ruffians, do you not see that you have almost caused an 
 accident? What are you doing? Wait — I'll make you fly ! " and 
 he swung a heavy stick in such a threatening manner that the 
 children ran away screaming. 
 
 " Easy, easy, Heinz," said the Dean. " Childhood knows no 
 limits — fifty and sixty years ago we were just like them. Come 
 here, lads," he called to the boys, who at this came running back, 
 undismayed by the burly Heinz. " What were you doing just 
 now ? " 
 
 " Sliding, Reverend Father," they chorused. 
 
 " Then slide away, but be careful not to hurt yourselves." 
 
 In a second he was surrounded by a mob of children, who 
 kissed his hands and begged for holy pictures. He gave them all 
 he had, and then went on. He had gone but a few steps when 
 he was stopped by a ragged old man. 
 
 " Well, Herman, is that you ? What's the matter now ? "
 
 DR. H. CARDAUN8. I39 
 
 " Matter enough. Reverend Father. What need to ask ? Hun- 
 ger and sorrow and misery every day that God sends. Who would 
 have thought wlien I was young that I would have to beg for a bit 
 of bread in my old age ? " 
 
 "And in the human way you have indeed merited better 
 things than that, Herman. You were always a good workman, 
 and that you lost your right arm was not your fault. But for 
 heaven's sake, man, what is the matter with your breeches? 
 Your bare legs are sticking out through the holes ! " 
 
 " I have no others, Father." 
 
 Ensfried put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his 
 purse. " Ah, my dear son," he said, sadly, " Job on his ash-heap 
 had not less than I have. How my money does go ! Only yes- 
 terday my nephew Frederick loaned me a gulden — for the very 
 last time, he said, but then he has said that often — and now it is 
 all gone again. And yet I can not let you go this way. Wait 
 a moment." 
 
 Between the church and a high garden wall there was a little 
 place scarcely thirty feet square. Ensfried looked right and left 
 hastily. Not a creature was in sight, and all one heard was the 
 voices of the children playing on the other side of the church. So 
 Ensfried slipped quickly into the farthest corner of the little place. 
 After a few minutes he came out again carrying something in his 
 hand. " Here, Herman," he said, " is something to protect you 
 against the cold. Later you may come and get some soup at my 
 house. And now God keep you. I am in a hurry." 
 
 Before the beggar could answer Ensfried was hurrying on 
 past the " sixteen houses " that are now curiously called Sach- 
 senhausen " — " Saxonhouses." Sometimes he looked around 
 nervously as though he had been guilty of some crime or other 
 and dreaded pursuit. Opposite the Beguin Convent on the 
 Stolkgasse — on the site of which a generation later the world- 
 famous Dominican convent was built — he turned off toward St. 
 Andrew's.
 
 140 THE GOOD DEAN ENSFRIED. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DEAN AS A HOST. 
 
 The St. Andrew's Foundation comprised a number of build- 
 ings and was really a little world by itself. In the background 
 towered the stately outlines of the collegiate church. The choir 
 part had been finished only a short time before — it was an ornate 
 edifice^ in a clover-leaf form, while the older part was simpler in 
 construction. In front of the church, and completing with it a 
 great enclosed square, were the other houses of the Foundation — 
 the archdeaconry, the chapter-house, the dormitory, the bakery, 
 and various other buildings incidental to the necessities of the 
 place. 
 
 At his appointment as Dean, Ensf ried did not go to live in the 
 comfortable dwelling belonging to his office. He left it to a 
 colleague for a rental which promptly went to the poor, and he 
 himself lived in a tiny house across from the Foundation, which 
 had come to him from his parents. That was twenty years ago, 
 and for the same length of time his nephew Frederick had lived 
 with him. Ensfried had taken the orphan to his home when he 
 was very young in years, and even after Frederick had been ap- 
 pointed vicar at St. Andrew's he continued to live with his uncle. 
 It was a good thing for both of them. The young man by daily 
 intercourse with his relative had become a splendid priest ; that he 
 had a somewhat practical way of looking at matters of the world 
 was really no reproach to him, and a protection to his uncle. 
 
 " I must look after uncle," he was wont to say, " or else he 
 will give away everything." "Without being niggardly, he was 
 much more careful in money matters than the Dean. And in this 
 regard he found a faithful ally in Monica, the old housekeeper, 
 who had a great talent for management. And indeed manage- 
 ment was often most necessary in the Dean's little home. 
 
 Frederick, who was a strong and well-built man in the early 
 thirties, was sitting, on this particular evening, in the best room
 
 DR. H. CARDAVN8. 141 
 
 of the Dean's house. With him were two intimate friends : Canon 
 Gottfried, who was the clerk of the Dean of the Cathedral, and 
 the merchant Hartlieb, a broad-shouldered man in the attire of a 
 rich burgher, with a clever yet good-natured face. 
 
 " Did I not tell you ? " Frederick was saying. " Supper time 
 is past, and we wait and wait. But it's his way. He likes to in- 
 vite guests, and then promptly forgets all about them. I am 
 wondering whether he even thought of preparing for his visitors." 
 
 " Oh, about that you may be easy," said the merchant with a 
 sly smile. " Monica would have been filling our ears with com- 
 plaints before this if it were otherwise." 
 
 " That's true. Yet I am surprised at such unusual foresight. 
 I am afraid that if a poor man had come along he would have 
 given away at least his own dinner and probably mine also. I 
 know him well. You have no conception of how far he carries his 
 charity — depriving himself even of the necessities of life, and the 
 older he gets the worse he gets. The dozen hens sent us from 
 the Merkenich farm the first of September were gone before six 
 o'clock in the evening. For St. Martin's Day we had a nice fat 
 goose on the spit and the whole house was savory with the odor. 
 But just before noon some woman comes up out of the Schmier- 
 strasse with a soup tureen. Monica happened to be in the cellar 
 for a moment, and he just chucked the goose into the woman's 
 tureen. When I discovered the misfortune she was up and gone 
 with the roast. Sheer starvation would have been my lot had 
 1 not come to you, Canon, as self-invited guest." 
 
 " I hope that my dinner did not prove a second disappoint- 
 ment," laughed the Canon. 
 
 " Indeed, no ; thank you. The dinner was very good. But 
 listen to uncle's latest prank. You know our tenant at Widders- 
 dorf brings us six hams on St. Andrew's Day, every year. These 
 I take under my particular protection, for they are a good part 
 of the rent, and the farmer knows how to fatten hogs. Well, I 
 went to the storeroom every day and counted the hams. And 
 each day I was more and more surprised to find the full number 
 and none missing. But he played a nice trick on me. Yester-
 
 143 THE GOOD DEAN ENSFRIED. 
 
 day I got up on the ladder to get down a ham, and what did I see? 
 Every one of the six was cut on the side turned toward the wall, 
 some of them even to the middle ! Who did it I do not need to 
 tell you, and who got the meat may be inferred." 
 
 Hartlieb laughed heartily, and the Canon himself could not 
 keep his face straight. " Yes, yes," he said. " That is just like 
 him. And if one were to argue with him, he would answer 
 ' What have I done wrong? Have I not left Frederick his half? ' " 
 
 " Exactly," Frederick exclaimed. " His words precisely ! 
 And much good that does me ! He must eat ham too — or do 
 you think that I would let him suffer when it is he who has 
 raised me and made a decent being out of me ? " 
 
 " That's right, my friend. And who could be wroth with 
 that saint or do anything ill to him? For that he is a saint is 
 not to be denied. Since I have known him, and that is about forty 
 years now, I have seen nothing but what was good and lovable in 
 him. Oh, the beautiful golden time when he was pastor in 
 Siegburg and I was a schoolboy ! It is as if it were yesterday 
 that I saw him for the first time. To be sure it was under con- 
 ditions not easily forgotten. I had brought June bugs into school 
 in my cap, and then let them loose. For punishment I was 
 being well whipped, when the new pastor came in, said something 
 to the teacher, and requested that I be sent over to him in the 
 afternoon. I was a little rogue, on whom every effort seemed 
 lost. But the way he talked to me, until even I began to 
 cry ! As a finish he sent me out to his cherry-tree, with full 
 liberty to pick as much fruit as I wanted to, and I promised my- 
 self then and there that I would never displease him again. 
 He conquered that whole wild school without ever a harsh word, 
 laughing and playing and teaching at the same time. If ever 
 there was a priest after God's own heart, it was he, and the whole 
 town wept when he was sent to Cologne." There was a suspicious 
 moisture in Ilartlieb's eyes as he finished. 
 
 " He is an angel in the flesh," Frederick added softly. " In 
 the whole parish of St. Paul, which is cared for from St. An- 
 drew's, there is not a dirty hut or corner, where poverty and
 
 DR. H. CARDAUN8. 143 
 
 misery hide, that he does not find. He gives away the very 
 clothes from his body, and for his suffering brethren in Christ 
 the best is hardly good enough. Where he gets all the bread, 
 the wine, and the money that he distributes daily, is beyond my 
 understanding. But, of course, in the matter of borrowing for 
 others he is not bashful. I have had my own trials with him." 
 He laughed a little before he went on with his tale. " Eecently it 
 is said he came into the bakery just as the fresh bread was to 
 be taken to the Canons, and said to the baker : ' Give my regards 
 to the reverend gentlemen, and say that though it is not really 
 right for me to do so, I am taking this bread because I need it 
 very much; they will probably be able to get along without it.' 
 He was to be reproved at Chapter, but no one had the heart to 
 do it. And with all this he is not really such a soft mark that all 
 the world can gull him. I have heard him speak of renegade and 
 dilatory priests in a way that fairly gave me chills. And on Sun- 
 days, when he preaches, one seems to hear the trumpet of Judg- 
 ment Day. Yet the man who does him a personal injury seems 
 to become a privileged character in his eyes. About three weeks 
 ago — I never told this to anybody because he did not want me 
 to — he was sitting in the house all by himself, when the Scotch 
 monk, Moengal, whom they have sent away from St. Martin's, 
 Ciime into the room, knife in hand, grabbed uncle by the shoulder, 
 and said he must have money. The poor fool ! As if uncle ever 
 keeps money when he has it, and anybody else wants it. I hap- 
 pened to come in just then and went for the wretched beggar. 
 But the Dean said, ' Let him be, Frederick, let him be. Moengal 
 was just getting off a bad joke. And go out — I have something 
 to say to him.' What they said to each other I can not report. 
 But this I know — Moengal came out of the room, pale as death, 
 his eyes full of tears. He has given up his dissipated life and 
 is doing penance working as a common laborer in a convent." 
 
 Somebody knocked at the door. " At last," all three called out 
 in chorus. One could hear old Monica slouching across the hall ; 
 a moment later Dean Ensfried himself entered. 
 
 " Ah, see, now," he began, his kind old face full of geniality,
 
 144 THE GOOD DEAN ENSFRIED. 
 
 and holding out both hands to his guests. " This is nice of you, 
 to surprise me with a visit. Will you share my simple meal with 
 me? You are most heartily welcome." 
 
 " Oh, ho, uncle," Hartlieb answered. " To-day you surely 
 arc not going to be quite so modest as to have a simple meal? 
 You asked us to come the day before yesterday." 
 
 " I asked you ? " Einsf ricd seemed very much embarrassed. 
 " Ah, yes, true. My old head refused to remember for a moment 
 but I have given Monica orders to prepare for you. Forgive me 
 that I forgot for the moment and kept you waiting. Dinner 
 shall be served at once." 
 
 Frederick, who had been a prey to the darkest suspicions as to 
 the probable prospects of dinner, sighed in sheer relief at the 
 Dean's words, and led the old gentleman to the fireplace to 
 take off his fur cloak for him. Suddenly he drew back in 
 alarm. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, uncle," he said, " where did you leave your 
 breeches ? " 
 
 The Dean's face reddened with embarrassment and he hastily 
 drew his cloak up again over his shoulders. " My breeches ? I 
 — I — what do you mean? Eeally, I — Frederick — I must have 
 dropped them somewhere." 
 
 " Of course you dropped them — but you probably know just 
 where and who picked them up. Or maybe it is possible that 
 they are still lying somewhere on the street." 
 
 " No, no," the Dean protested. " How can you think any- 
 thing like that? Poor Herman looked so cold, and his were so 
 worn — " 
 
 " There it is again," said Frederick, as the Dean hastily left 
 the room. " He might catch his death in this bitter cold. But 
 do quit that tiresome laughing, Hartlieb. And you. Canon, why 
 do you look as lachrymose as a funeral director?" and all the 
 time Frederick was wiping his own eyes. 
 
 In a few moments the Dean came back, clothed once more in 
 breeches, which, if not as good as those he left with Herman, were 
 at least passable. " So," he said, complacently, " and now we
 
 DR. H. CARDAUNS. 145 
 
 ma}^ sit down. Monica, is everything ready? Our guests are 
 hungry." 
 
 For answer there came from the kitchen an unintelligible 
 grumbling. A few minutes later, a tall, lank, gray-haired woman 
 came in. In one hand she had half a ham, in the other a loaf 
 of bread. She laid both on the table with a bang, and then burst 
 out, " Here is the food. 1 hope you'll have a good appetite." 
 
 The two clergjanen exchanged a look of consternation, while 
 the merchant laughed out loud. But the Dean said sternly : 
 " What does this mean ? Bring the soup and let us have no 
 more of this nonsense." 
 
 " What nonsense ? " asked Monica. '"' All afternoon I stewed 
 and roasted and baked. An hour before it was time for the 
 Angelus I ran out of the kitchen for a moment and when I came 
 back the chickens were gone, the roast also — and the Dean, too. 
 1 cried for anger, and was ashamed to tell Father Frederick. 
 Was lame George here again, or old Catherine with the five 
 children? How often have I begged that at least the dinner be 
 spared ? ' Give and you shall receive,' is always the answer. Now 
 you gave once too often and you'll have to see what you will 
 receive. To think that I have to live through a thing like this ! " 
 and Monica began to sob, covering her face with her apron. 
 
 The Dean looked around helplessly. Then Hartlieb, with a 
 sly wink, said : " Do not let her frighten you — I believe it is a 
 joke. Let us take a look into the living-room: perhaps she has 
 served the dinner there." 
 
 The Dean opened the door very gingerly. The little table in 
 there was covered with fine linen, and from the soup tureen 
 arose a tempting odor, while a great roast waited on the side- 
 board. 
 
 " But," said Ensf ried, hesitatingly, " how did you manage, 
 my good Monica? For old Catherine was really here, and I did 
 give her something — perhaps more than was necessary." 
 
 But the cook shook her head and laughed and cried by turns. 
 Then Hartlieb explained. 
 
 " You see, Dean, you proved yourself in the right once more.
 
 146 THE GOOD DEAN ENSFRIED. 
 
 ' Give and you shall receive.' To be sure it was lucky that I came 
 early enough to look into your pots. And now sit down, old 
 friend, and enjoy yourself. And if you have no objection, Mon- 
 ica shall get herself a plate and sit down with us too." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT THE archbishop's. 
 
 The guests had gone. The Dean was still sitting comfort- 
 ably in his high-backed chair. " Now you see," he was saying 
 to his nephew, " our dear Lord will not forsake us." 
 
 " That surely came true to-day," said Frederick. " But He 
 may not send a guest like Hartlieb all the time. And how do you 
 think we are going to get along? You have borrowed my last 
 gulden and you yourself have not a penny in your purse; none 
 of the rents are due for several weeks. What now? Shall we 
 borrow money? You are considerably in debt, uncle, and not a 
 soul will lend me a penny. Many would do so, but they all think 
 that you get everything in the end — they do not believe you are 
 so extravagantly charitable. If you only do not sell the very 
 house over our heads I shall be thankful." 
 
 The Dean became very red, but answered meekly : " Do not 
 be so anxious, my dear boy. Had I not all my life kept such a 
 deep faith in the promises of Scripture I would long since have 
 gone to my grave from sheer worry. When your good mother 
 died and I took you into my house I had as much as you have now 
 — not a penny. When I put you into your little bed on the first 
 night I was filled with anxiety. But then the thought came to me 
 that he who takes a child in the name of Christ takes Christ Him- 
 self. I went to sleep, and the next morning I found ten ducats 
 in an old stocking outside my door. God must have touched the 
 heart of some good man. Since then I have always trusted in 
 Cod. Short of money I liavo often been, but very rarely hungry.
 
 DR. H. CARDAUNS. U7 
 
 As for you, dear nephew, you have brought me blessings, and have 
 been the joy of my old age." 
 
 " God bless you, uncle," Frederick said softly. For a moment 
 there was silence in the little room. Then the nephew roused 
 himself. " But I can not help thinking what we shall do for to- 
 morrow. You see I am not philosophical like you," he said. 
 
 " Let us have no over-anxious care for the morrow," answered 
 the Dean. " To-morrow will take care of itself. I just remem- 
 ber now that the Archbishop has asked us to dinner for to-mor- 
 row. As for the rest, you are entirely right in thinking that I 
 ought to have more care for our daily bread, for your sake, and 
 particularly for the sake of old Monica — the faithful soul. It 
 is true, too, that it were better if I had made some provision 
 for both of you after I die, for it will surely not be long until 
 (tod calls me. But I have always been drawn most powerfully 
 toward charity to my fellow-beings, and I can but trust now 
 that God will keep you in His care, as He has me. ' What you 
 do to the least of these My brethren you have done unto Me,' has 
 always been a sweet consolation. The time has come when I can 
 say, ' Lord, let Thy servant go in peace.' " 
 
 The Dean had spoken with a deep solemnity, and Frederick 
 
 did not answer in words. Instead he knelt at the feet of the 
 
 venerable man and kissed his hands, and for a blessing laid them 
 
 on his own head. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The next day uncle and nephew went to the archiepiscopal 
 residence near the Cathedral court. 
 
 It was a broad, low building, with Gothic windows from which" 
 there was a beautiful outlook over the Ehine, the old Cathedral, 
 and the adjoining Church of St. Mary of the Stairs. The Arch- 
 bishop, Philip of Heinsberg, received them pleasantly. He M'as 
 famous, first as a supporter of Frederick Barbarossa and later as 
 his opponent, and he played a mighty role in the affairs of the 
 realm. But he was of a genial mind and loved a joke, and felt 
 most kindly toward the good Dean Ensfried. 
 
 There were but few quests besides Dean Ensfried and his
 
 148 THE GOOD DEAX ENSFRIED. 
 
 nephew — Dean Conrad of the Cathedral, several Canons and 
 clergymen. The food was simple but good. At the dessert the 
 Archbishop chanced to glance at Eusfried and saw that he hastily 
 put something in his pocket, looking around the while to see 
 whether he were observed. But His Grace did not let it appear 
 that he had noticed anything. 
 
 When the meal was over and the guests wished to go, the 
 Archbishop, contrary to his custom, urged them to stay a little 
 longer. They all sat about the hearth-fire and, gently encour- 
 aged by the Archbishop, began to relate various experiences. 
 His Grace led the conversation toward Ensfried, and before the 
 latter was aware of the turn things had taken, a half-dozen little 
 stories had been told on him. Even the story of the breeches 
 was not forgotten. Hartlieb must have talked, for Frederick 
 and Canon Gottfried, at whom the Dean looked reproachfully, 
 vowed they had not uttered a word. 
 
 The Archbishop was delighted. " That was good of you, 
 even if a little rash. We can all follow your example when it 
 comes to charity, and the main part is that your right hand 
 never knows what your left is doing. I believe that this applies 
 even to your legs. In short you are a true householder of the 
 Lord. You never leave your house without giving away some- 
 thing, do you. Dean ? Just look, gentlemen, how his pockets are 
 stuffed. I am sure they are full of apples for the children, for 
 to-morrow is the feast of St. Nicholas. Let us see if you have 
 a good variety. If not, I shall give you some better ones." 
 
 But the Dean was by this time painfully red. 
 
 " Pardon, Your Grace," he stammered, " it isn't apples — T 
 haven't — I thought — I wanted to — that is — " 
 
 " No refusal, on pain of my displeasure. Let us see what you 
 have in your pockets. What — you do not want to ? Well, well," 
 he said, turning to the Dean of the Cathedral, " help your col- 
 league." 
 
 The next instant Ensfried's pockets were turned inside out. 
 and a nice collection of fine white bread and cake appeared. 
 
 " What ! " cried the Archbishop sternly, " dainties from our
 
 DR. H. CARDAVNS. 149 
 
 own table? That's pretty bad, Ensfried. Do you remember the 
 Seventh Commandment ? " 
 
 " ' Thou shalt not steal/' "' said Ensfried, half-ashamed and 
 half-defiant. " And I did not steal either. Your Grace guessed 
 aright. To-morrow is the feast of St. Nicholas and to-night 
 I wanted to play the part of St. Nicholas among some of the 
 children, but I have no money. And so I did the next best thing. 
 Of all these dainties I did not eat a bite, but put my portion 
 into my pockets." 
 
 The whole company laughed aloud. The Archbishop alone 
 preserved his solemn and threatening manner, although it was 
 becoming trying even for him. Frowning he said : " You have 
 done very wrong. Dean. At our table no person is permitted 
 to put anything in any place except his mouth. But this is the 
 result of your secrecy, which is totally unnecessary. A word from 
 3'ou, and I would have given you several baskets full of dainties 
 for the children. But, no, everything must always be done on 
 the sly. And punishment there must be. I suppose the hardest 
 punishment will be to have to listen here in my presence to stories 
 about your own performances. Now, gentlemen, whoever knows 
 a story on the Dean of St. Andrew's, let him tell it." 
 
 Ensfried sighed. Still, he seemed to perceive kindliness 
 rather than censure at the bottom of the Archbishoi)'s words; so 
 he waited patiently for what might come. 
 
 "Who will begin?" said the Archbishop. "Come, Dean 
 Herman." 
 
 " I know so many," said Dean Herman, with an apologetic 
 smile. " Let me ponder over them while Dean Conrad starts it." 
 
 " I have one ready," said Dean Conrad. " And indeed it 
 concerns me personally. It will be three years on St. Martin's 
 Day that I bought Ensfried's house of him. It is not worth 
 much, and there is an entailed rental on it. Nevertheless I paid 
 a good price and in cash at that. I waited a long time at first 
 before I spoke to him gently and pleasantly about it. But he 
 said he had not yet found another house, and made many ex- 
 cuses 3 at last he almost laughed at me, saying : ' My dear Conrad,
 
 150 THE GOOD DEAN ENS FRIED. 
 
 can't you see that I am an old man, who can not last much 
 longer? Wait just a little, then you will get your house as a 
 matter of course. Until that time I surely must have a roof over 
 me.' In this way I have let him put me off over and over again. 
 And truly he is capable of living to be a hundred years old, I 
 think. But now I am tired of waiting. To-morrow morning, 
 Ensfried, I am coming to claim my house and take possession of 
 my property." 
 
 " Uncle, uncle," cried Frederick, " what have you done — 
 and not a word to me ! " 
 
 The Archbishop gave a quick look at the Dean of the Cathe- 
 dral and turned calmly to Ensfried again : " This is a very bad 
 slor}'^. Dean. Have you really sold your house to Conrad? Yes? 
 Then no man can help you further, for the bailiffs of Cologne 
 will take no nonsense on a question like that. Or do you know 
 some other way out of this difficulty ? " 
 
 Ensfried had become pale. He looked imploringly at Fred- 
 erick and gently pressed his hand. Then a sudden light seemed 
 to pass over the kindly face. He raised his head and said : " It is 
 well, Conrad — you are in the right. To-morrow I shall have 
 another house, small to be sure, but large enough for me. And 
 now permit me to leave, Archbishop. I must go for vespers." 
 
 The guests all left except the Dean of the Cathedral. The 
 Archbishop asked him smilingly, " Well ? " 
 
 " Forgive me for having a little fun with the good man," 
 answered the Dean. "Your Grace knows that I would not put 
 him out. But it may be that he himself took me seriously. If 
 so, I should be very sorry. In the mean time a little scare may 
 make him more careful. I shall go to see him to-morrow." 
 
 " I will be there, too," said the Archbishop, " and for the 
 fright he has had I will give him a pleasure."
 
 DR. H. CARDAUNS. 151 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE REWARD OF ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 When Ensfried returned from vespers with his nephew he 
 found a great basket on the table filled with fruit and cakes. 
 
 " See that," he called out, and his pleasure was like a child's. 
 " It is surely from the Archbishop. Come in here, Monica. 
 Have you seen this ? St. Nicholas must have been here." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the old woman sulkily. " He didn't bring 
 you a house, though, I notice." And the old cook began to 
 cry. 
 
 " Never mind," said Ensfried consolingly. " It will all be 
 well to-morrow. This evening is St. Nicholas' Eve. Here, Mon- 
 ica, is your portion of the goodies. Now we will go and see the 
 children. Each of you take a basket." 
 
 Night came on as the three went from hut to hut, and even 
 Monica became gay as she watched the joy of the little ones. 
 Ensfried himself seemed to take great pleasure in the joy he was 
 giving, laughing and playing with the children as if he were a 
 child too. When they returned late in the evening Frederick 
 felt that he would like to talk the situation over with his uncle 
 and see what they could do if Dean Conrad really insisted on 
 taking possession. But Ensfried did not even permit him to fin- 
 ish his sentence. " Let him come," he said. " I will play a 
 trick on him which will astonish him. But now, on the eve of 
 St. Nicholas' Day, I do not want to be bothered worrying over 
 to-morrow. And I thank you, Frederick, for all that you have 
 done for me. When I am no longer here say a prayer sometimes 
 for my poor soul and be kind to Monica. She deserves it in 
 spite of all her grumbling." 
 
 St. Nicholas' Day had come — a clear, beautiful winter day. 
 The sun glinted on the snow, and shone pleasantly into the little
 
 152 THE OOOD DEAN EN8FRIED. 
 
 room where Dean Ensfried sat in his high-backed chair. He had 
 risen long before sunrise, although his head seemed heavy and 
 his legs numb. Frederick would have liked to persuade him to 
 remain at home from Mass, but it was time wasted to try. After 
 the Dean had said Mass he knelt for a long time on the cold 
 stones, wrapt in fervent prayer. Chilled to the marrow, he came 
 into the house. He hardly touched his breakfast. There was 
 nothing the matter, he was only a little cold and tired, he said. 
 Would they not just leave him alone for an hour or so? Quiet 
 and warmth would make him feel all right. 
 
 So he had been sitting there for a long time, his hands folded 
 on his knees, his eyes fixed on the crucifix that hung on the wall 
 between a picture of St. Nicholas and one of the holy Child in 
 the manger. His face alternately showed a deep earnestness and 
 then again a happy smile. Once his lips parted and he whispered, 
 "I am coming, dear Jesus, I am coming," and then everything 
 was quiet again. 
 
 Frederick opened the door leading into the little room softly. 
 *' Are you feeling better again, dear uncle ? " he asked gently. 
 No answer came. " He is sleeping," he said then, and tiptoed 
 to the big chair, looking into the venerable old face. What he 
 saw there made him start back in alarm. Hastily he took his 
 uncle's hand, which lay cold and limp in his. With a cry he left 
 the room to get help. 
 
 An hour passed. Ensfried lay motionless on his bed. Be- 
 side him stood Archbishop Philip, the Dean and the Canon of the 
 Cathedral, Kutger the physician, and Hartlieb the merchant. 
 Frederick and Monica knelt sobbing at the foot of the bed. He 
 had been anointed as quickly as possible, and bled. It was a 
 stroke of paralysis, the physician said. He might recover con- 
 sciousness once more, but the end was not far away. 
 
 Ensfried opened his eyes and smiled softly as he beheld all 
 the familiar faces. " Your Grace is here, too," he said brokenly 
 to the Archbishop. " That is too great an honor. See, Conrad," 
 he said to iho Dean, " I am keeping my word. My new house is 
 waiting for me out in the cemetery of St. Andrew's, and for the
 
 BR. H. CARDAVNS^ 153 
 
 two or three days until I am quite ready for it you must still 
 have patience." 
 
 " Forgive my foolish words," Dean Conrad said, sadly. " One 
 should not jest about such things. See why I came this morn- 
 ing," and he took out a roll of parchment. " It is the bill of sale 
 torn in two. This is what I wanted to bring you to-day. Did 
 you really think me so hard-hearted as to believe that I could 
 mean what I said last night ? " 
 
 " Oh, I did not think of it at all," Ensfried answered. " When 
 you asked to have possession of your house yesterday, somehow 
 the story of St. Nicholas and the shepherd boy of Leichlingen 
 came into my mind. Do you know it? Frederick, you tell it. 
 Talking is very hard for me." 
 
 Frederick's voice was so husky that at first they could scarcely 
 hear it. " In the little village of Leichlingen," he began, " four 
 hours' travel across the Ehine from here, the following hap- 
 pened about seven years ago. A poor boy tended sheep for a 
 farmer's wife. He had a great devotion to St. Nicholas, the 
 friend of children, and in honor of him he shared his bread every 
 day with other children still poorer than he. One day the saint 
 appeared to him in the form of a venerable old man and said to 
 him : ' My good boy, drive the sheep home.' ' Sir,' the boy re- 
 plied, * It is still early, and if I take the sheep home now the 
 farmer's wife will scold me.' The saint said : ' I am St. Nicholas, 
 for whom you have always had a deep devotion and in whose 
 honor you shared your bread with poor children. To-day I have 
 come to reward you. Go home and receive the body of Our 
 Lord, for before evening comes you will die and come to me.' 
 Then he vanished. But the shepherd boy did as he was com- 
 manded and on that very day St. Nicholas led him to the fields 
 of eternal joy." 
 
 Ensfried nodded, smiling happily. " I thought of this yes* 
 terday evening, and I seemed to see St. Nicholas as he is painted 
 on the picture at Burscheid, which the first Abbot, Gregorius, the 
 son of the King of Greece, brought into our land. He looked at 
 me kindly, and said, ' In my Father's house there are many man-
 
 154 THE GOOD DEAN ENSFRIED. 
 
 sions.' On that I have depended, and now all is well. You, 
 however. Canon Conrad, I thank with all my heart for your 
 generous gift. You know that 1 did not use the money for my- 
 self." 
 
 A dull, rumbling noise came out of the adjoining hallway. 
 
 " What is that, Frederick? " the dying man asked faintly. 
 
 " People to whom you have been kind, uncle. They are 
 crowding the hall away out into the street, where they stand by 
 the hundreds and weep and pray, and will not believe that the 
 Lord is going to take you from them." 
 
 Ensf ried sighed : " What will become of my poor people ? " 
 
 " Let them be my care," said the Archbishop, and held out his 
 hand. " All who lose a father in you shall be my children. 
 Leave them to me as my legacy from you. I will care for them 
 as a father should, with the help of God." 
 
 Ensfried half raised himself in bed. A happy smile lit u]) 
 his face. " God be praised," he whispered ; he gave a gentle 
 pressure to the Archbishop's hand, and fell back on the pillows. 
 Peacefully, without a struggle, he had passed into the better life. 
 
 The Archbishop bent over him tenderly, closed his eyes, and 
 said: "''Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' 
 Peace to the soul of the good Dean Ensfried."
 
 •-^-^ 
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 
 
 This is the pseudonym of Monsignor Joseph Bischoff, living in 
 retirement at Speyer since 1870. It may well be said that 
 Bolanden is the most popular and widest read of contemporary 
 German Catholic fiction wi iters. He was born on August 9, 1828, 
 at Gailbach in the Rhenish Palatinate. He studied theology, 
 and later was the parish priest in Bdrrstedt, and then at 
 Beghausen, near Speyer. After giving up parish work he de- 
 voted himself entirely to literary labors. He was made a 
 Papal Chamberlain by Pope Pius IX., in recognition of the merits 
 of his efforts in the field of Catholic literature. Since then his 
 labors have been prodigious. Almost every year he has produced
 
 several new volumes. The motive of his books he has found in 
 history and in the problems of social life. He is a brilliant rep- 
 resentative of the historical school of fiction. The great struggles 
 between the Papacy and the imperial power at the time of 
 Barbarossa and Henry IV., the Reformation and the peasant 
 uprisings, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew's, the march of 
 Gustavus Adolphus against the imperial troops, Frederick the Great 
 and the French Revolution, these are the events that he knows 
 how to weave into breathless narratives full of fascinating personal 
 interest. 
 
 All of his novels do not rise to the same high standard. When 
 he touches upon modern times he becomes partisan and didactic, 
 giving but little margin to poetry and the imagination. He then 
 has other aims than merely to please. He wants to clear the 
 atmosphere. Indeed his heroic tales are written with a purpose 
 too. It is to refute some of the lies of history. Many critics 
 condemn the purpose novel entirely as inartistic. Nevertheless. 
 Bolanden has written a series of books which belong to the best 
 that German literature has produced in the romantic field. His 
 earlier novels are particularly to be commended " Luther s 
 Brautfahrt " (1857), "Franz von Sickingen" (1859), " Konigin 
 Bertha" (1860), "Barbarossa" (1862), " Gustav Adolph " (1867- 
 1870). "Canossa" (1872). After these followed: "Urdeutsch" 
 (1875). " Bartholomausnacht " (1879), " Altdeutsch " (1881), 
 "Savonarola" (1882), " Neudeutsch " (1883), "Die Kreuz- 
 fahrer" (1885-1887), "Wambold" (1889), "Deutsche Kultur- 
 bilder" (1893), "Karl der Grosse " (1895). "Die Arche Noah" 
 (1896). "Otto der Grosse" (1898).' During these years also 
 appeared the social romances: "Die Aufgeklarten " (1864). 
 "Angela" (1866). " Die Schwarzen und die Rothen " ( 1868), "Die 
 Unfehlbaren" ( 1875), " Bankrott "( 1877), "Die Ultramontanen " 
 (1890). "Die Sozialen" (1891). "Die Sozialdemokraten und ihre 
 Vater" (1894), "Die Volksverderber " (1896). He has also 
 written a series of short stories. Many of his books have gone 
 through ten and twenty editions. 
 
 Bolanden's style is always strong, impressive, and ardent. Some- 
 times he is blunt to the point of portraying scenes that might 
 meet with objections on account of the hypersensitive and the 
 young. On the other hand, this is a world of men and women, 
 and a man of such profound purpose and seriousness as Bolanden 
 can not always be held within the limitations of the hypersensitive, 
 nor of the young person.
 
 f^irxQ IRatbo^o. 
 
 A Tale of the Seventh Century. 
 
 BY CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 The region between the Ehine, the Ems, and the sea was oc- 
 cupied by the Frisians even in the earliest known times. 
 
 The Eoman historians do not give us a pleasant picture of 
 Frisia. What Tacitus and Pliny relate of the swamps and mo- 
 rasses of Germany was true of Frisia in a greater degree. Even 
 in the seventh century the Christian missionaries found a wild 
 and uncultivated country, wherein it was hardly possible for 
 human beings to exist. Here the Frisians lived, surrounded by 
 water, in it and on it, almost like the fishes. 
 
 Nevertheless no Teuton tribe was more jealous of its inde- 
 pendence and liberty than the Frisians. They were overpowered 
 by the Romans and paid tribute to the mistress of the ancient 
 world for a time. Moreover, they also stained their honor with 
 treachery against their fellow tribes, by serving the Eoman Drusus, 
 the stepson of Augustus. But their submission did not last long. 
 As far back as the year 28 A. D. they rose against the Eomans, 
 defeated Julius Apronius, and that in so bloody a battle that the 
 Eomans never after dared to attack them. 
 
 The Frisians were as devoted to their traditional customs, 
 habits, and religion as they were to their liberties. They stub- 
 bornly closed their hearts to the rising tide of Christian and civ- 
 ilizing influences. The holy bishops, Amandus, Eligius, Wilfred, 
 and others, came to them and endured the hardships of the 
 Frisian wildernesses with heroic devotion. But the teachings of 
 
 167
 
 168 KING RATBODO. 
 
 Christianity were not to Frisian taste. Thc}^ wanted to live 
 after tlie ancient, barbaric niauner, without putting a curb on 
 their desires in the commandments of a God who thought very 
 differently than did their gods. Their gods never denied them 
 anything they longed for. Never did the warlike Weda refuse 
 the right of might. All the spoils a brave man could take were 
 his. It was honorable to attack neighboring countries, kill who- 
 ever resisted, and return laden with plunder. 
 
 To this traditional custom Christianity opposed the com- 
 mand to love one's neighbor, to respect the possessions of others, 
 and condemned pillage and murder. Their goddess Foseta, who 
 presided over the scanty harvests, commanded but the slaves, the 
 old and the weak, to till the fields, while the free and the able- 
 bodied men lay around in idleness or went on plundering expe- 
 ditions. The Frisians never neglected to offer her sacrifice when 
 they set out on their raids of pillage and murder. 
 
 They thought the command of the Christian God, who laid 
 the necessity of work upon free men also, contemptible and de- 
 grading. Their goddess Hertha loved debauching feasts, when 
 she passed through the land in her covered wagon drawn by cows. 
 Xeither did she take it unkindly when they broke one another's 
 skulls at the drunken carousals held in her honor. But the 
 missionaries preached abnegation, temperance, and forgiveness. 
 
 Considering these contrasts, it is not to be wondered at that 
 the efforts of the missionaries had little or no result. These 
 rough men knew very well that their gods and their feasts would 
 disappear with the acceptance of Christianity. Therefore they 
 stiffened their strong necks against the call to the kingdom of 
 God. They closed their eyes to the light and dwelt in the dark- 
 ness. To win the favors of their gods by human sacrifices, to be 
 lucky robbers, and brave warriors, seemed better and more manly 
 to them than to submit their wild passions to the gospel of peace. 
 
 But the Frisians were not to be permitted to remain in their 
 inherited barbarity. They themselves forged the hammer that 
 was to break down their obstinacy. 
 
 The boundaries of Austrasia, the eastern part of the Frankish
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 159 
 
 empire, and its rich settlements, spurred the Frisians to frequent 
 raids. King Katbodo had gathered his warriors once more and 
 had broken into the land of the Franka, carrying fire and murder 
 wherever he went. But this time he did not get very far. Like a 
 storm wind, Pepin of Heristal and his Franks came from the 
 Upper Ehine, defeated the Frisians in 684, and united the 
 southern part of Frisia with his own domains. He even took 
 Wiltaburg, as Utrecht was then called, where was the residence 
 of King Eatbodo. There Pepin intended to establish an episcopal 
 see, as a dam against Frisian paganism. He sent St. Willibrord 
 to Rome with the request that the Pope consecrate him Bishop of 
 Frisia. 
 
 In South Frisia, where Pepin ruled, the Bishop was very suc- 
 cessful. But in Xorth Frisia King Eatbodo remained obstinate 
 to Christian teaching, though he permitted the missionaries to 
 preach, and had even promised the victorious Pepin that he 
 would receive baptism. 
 
 St. Willibrord returned from North Frisia to his see in 
 Utrecht, having wrought but few conversions, and narrowly es- 
 caped death himself. But he was not gone long when a man 
 appeared like whom there seemed to be no other, for his preach- 
 ings were confirmed by wonders and miracles. This man was St. 
 Wulfram, Archbishop of Sens, in Neustria, the western part of 
 Prankish dominion. His prayers healed the blind and lame, and 
 even brought the dead to life. 
 
 Appointed by God to preach the gospel to the Frisians, he ob- 
 tained the sanction and help both of King Childebert, of Neustria, 
 and of Pepin, of Heristal, of Austrasia, thus having back of him 
 the entire power of the east and west domains of the mighty 
 Franks. Wulfram set the affairs of his see in order, placed them 
 in the hands of a successor, and then went to the Abbey of Fonti- 
 nella. There he selected several devout and learned monks, and 
 sailed down the Seine, and out into the sea, landing on the North 
 Frisian coast. 
 
 King Eatbodo received the new missionary rather kindly and 
 permitted him to preach the God of the Christians to the people.
 
 160 KING RATBODO. 
 
 II. 
 
 All paganism had one horror in common — that was human 
 sacrifice. The cultured Greeks and Romans, as well as the bar- 
 barous Sc}ihians and Teutons, killed human beings in honor of 
 their gods. Even the chosen people of the Lord, the Jews, fell 
 into the terrible error, in the periods in which they turned away 
 from the true God. Jehovah threatened through Moses : " If any 
 man of the children of Israel, or of the strangers that dwell in 
 Israel, give his children to the idol jMoloch, dying let him die." 
 
 Moloch was a truly diabolical invention. He had a bull's 
 head, and was made of metal, hollow on the inside. He was 
 heated until red preparatory to the sacrifice. Then living chil- 
 dren were laid on his glowing arms, and that, too, in the presence 
 of their mothers, who were not permitted to weep for fear of de- 
 stroying the pleasure of the god. To drown the crying and 
 moaning of the roasting children there was much singing and 
 noisy music. Even the punishments and warnings of the true 
 God were not always potent enough to destroy this horrible 
 worship. 
 
 All Teutonic tribes had sacred groves in which dwelt their 
 gods and where their feasts were celebrated. The slightest harm 
 done to a tree in one of these groves was punished by death. On 
 the day of the feast of Weda the Frisians streamed to the sacred 
 grove, whose mighty oaks crowned a hill rising in rolling lines 
 out of the surrounding plain. The women had decorated their 
 attire with bright-colored ribbons, and the men and boys were in 
 battle array. Behind the crowds, horses, oxen, and swine were 
 led along, wreathed with oak-leaves, and gay with strips of bright- 
 colored cloth. The beasts were to be offered to Weda and their 
 flesh eaten at the feast to follow. There were also in the train 
 wagons loaded down with kegs of beer and mead. Around these 
 wild crowds danced and sang, enjoying their contents in anticipa- 
 tion. 
 
 The sacrificial victim was always chosen by lot. The young 
 man who, according to custom, was to be sacrificed to Weda on this
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 161 
 
 day was a touching sight. His head was wreathed with oak-leaves 
 and his clothing gaily decorated. But his face was pale with 
 dread, and with dull eyes he walked between two armed men, 
 deaf to the cries and cheers of the passing youth of his own age. 
 Just behind him walked his parents, their faces distorted by 
 grief, showing that superstition and hideous custom were not 
 strong enough to suppress all human emotion. 
 
 As they neared the sacred grove a troop of horsemen galloped 
 by. King Eatbodo at their head. His clothing was of rich stuffs, 
 undoubtedly the spoils of some foray into southern lands, for 
 the Frisians went even as far as Spain. The embroidered mantle 
 fluttered in the breeze, disclosing the tight-fitting, gold-trimmed 
 under-body. On his head was a helmet, surmounted by an eagle 
 with spread wings. In his leather belt hung a heavy sword with 
 glittering hilt. As he passed he glanced sharply at the poor, be- 
 dizened victim. When he saw the pale youth and weeping parents 
 a scornful look came into his weather-beaten face. He checked 
 his horse and turned to his nearest follower. 
 
 " Weda's choice seems a peculiar one to-day. I did not think 
 that our god of war liked rabbit-hearts. How does it seem to 
 you, Viderich ? " 
 
 " I am always of your opinion, king," answered Viderich, 
 whose helmet sported two mighty bull's horns. " As for the 
 rest, the gods must have their way." 
 
 "Of course. As long as Weda likes human blood and helps 
 us in our battles, he may have his will," said the king with a 
 short laugh. 
 
 His manner showed no reverence for the gods. To him 
 they were convenient so long as the religious customs and beliefs 
 suited his personal desires. They were to him a political measure 
 — and in this the Frisian barbarian was not unlike rulers of far 
 later and different times. 
 
 As soon as the Frisians reached the sacred grove their boister- 
 ous manner changed, and they became very quiet. Free from all 
 underbrush and aftergrowths, the grove was composed only of 
 great oaks, whose immense trunks were like vast pillars. No
 
 162 KllS'a RATBODO. 
 
 game was permitted in the grove and no bird allowed to rest or 
 build its nest there. Hence the silence of the grave, gloom and 
 darkness. A sluggish stream flowed through the forest, its waters 
 seeming black in the half light. Out of this murky pool welled 
 the sacred spring. Beside it stood the temple. There, in the 
 innermost part of the sanctum, were the chief gods. At the foot 
 of the grim old oaks surrounding a circular opening tlie gods 
 were placed on rough stone bases. They were all covered with a 
 dark crust — the sacrificial blood that had been poured over them. 
 The surrounding trees were also blood-bespattered, and hung 
 with fresh and withered garlands, tablets covered with Runic 
 inscriptions, and other decorations. 
 
 In the temple itself were many other images standing against 
 the walls and facing the altar. Suspended from the ceiling, on 
 an iron chain, hung an immense kettle, in which the flesh of 
 animals sacrificed was cooked. Against the walls hung pans, 
 bowls, knives, axes, and other implements. Numerous skulls 
 standing on the surrounding shelves filled the Christian beholder 
 with repugnance. They belonged to enemies and it was the cus- 
 tom to drink out of them on the feasts of Weda as well as at other 
 times. 
 
 A low wall shut off the temple and sacred trees, and outside 
 of the priest, his assistants, and those who brought offerings to 
 the gods, no one was permitted to go within this wall. 
 
 Crowded together, and in utter silence, the Frisians stood 
 about the temple and the sacred place. There was nothing of re- 
 ligious emotion to be seen on any of the faces — mere curiosity, 
 oftener impatience at the delay of the joys of the feasting to come. 
 Some of the older men and women, for whom the pleasures of 
 the flesh no longer held any allurement, had thrown themselves 
 down before the trees in the vicinity of the temple, imploring 
 the help of the gods who were supposed to live in them. 
 
 In the foremost ranks of the waiting crowd stood the king, 
 surrounded by those bravest in battle and wisest in council. He 
 peered anxiously into the gloaming of the temple, where one 
 could faintly see moving figures. The day was an important
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 163 
 
 one to him, for out of the intestines of the sacrificial beasts the 
 Alruna women were to read the will of Weda to him. It was not 
 because the king cared, but because the superstition of his people 
 demanded the sanction of the war god for their expeditions, and 
 the king and his counselors had been planning another raid into 
 Austrasia, despite the drubbing given them by Pepin of Heristal. 
 
 The deep call of horns at last announced the beginning of the 
 feast. Out of the temple came the stately figure of the priest, 
 clad in a long, Avhite robe, a flowing white drapery on his head. 
 In contrast with the rest of the men, who, according to the cus- 
 tom of the country, were either smooth-faced or had but a mus- 
 tache, he wore a flowing beard. In his hand he carried a white 
 wand, the sign of his dignity. Following him were two Alruna 
 women, or prophetesses. They were uncanny-looking old crea- 
 tures, whose gray hair fell unbound down their back. They, like 
 the priest, were barefooted, and were also clad in long, white robes, 
 held together from throat to feet by shining hooks. A bright 
 copper girdle held their robes over the hips, and in their hands 
 they carried long knives, intended to cut the throats of the sac- 
 rificial animals or of the human victims if there were any. After 
 them came several of the priest's helpers. They carried a rope 
 and a ladder. 
 
 At the same time Ovo, the bedecked and garlanded victim, 
 was led forward by his parents. The unhappy youth had the 
 calm of utter despair. His eyes were downcast. The convulsive 
 twitching of his ghastly face was the only evidence of his dumb 
 misery. His mother, however, had lost all control of herself. 
 She wept and moaned while the father submitted in sullen silence 
 to the hideous custom. 
 
 To-day the victim was not to be sacrificed by the knife of 
 the Alruna women, but to be strangled to death by hanging. The 
 helpers were beginning to pull up the rope when strange sounds 
 came through the trees. They paused, startled, listening. It 
 was the trained voices of monks chanting a psalm, and sounding 
 through the ghastly grove of the bloody gods like a confession 
 of the oiie true faith. Now the singers were coming into sight.
 
 164 KING RATBODO. 
 
 First walked a tall man, with raised eyes and uplifted right 
 liand. lie wore a long black robe with a white girdle, and the 
 tliree men who followed him were clad in the same way. 
 
 Involuntarily the Frisians gave way before them. 
 
 " Brave King of the Frisians, we give you greeting," said the 
 leader. 
 
 '' I return your greeting, Bishop Wulfram. Why do you in- 
 terrupt our feast ? " 
 
 The last words were not spoken reproachfully, but with a 
 pleasant smile. Political reasons moved Eatbodo to be agreeable 
 to a man who was held in high regard in the western court of 
 the Franks. 
 
 " Do not be wroth with me, gracious king," answered the 
 saint gently. " I have come to protest against a sacrifice that is 
 an abomination before the face of the almighty God. Give me 
 the life of that youth." 
 
 " It is true, you ask but little — I should like to give you much 
 more than a rabbit-hearted youth — yet it can not be. He be- 
 longs to Wcda. "Wliat we take from men — animals, gold, silver, 
 and other booty, we may give away, but not what belongs to the 
 gods. That is sacred, and therefore I can not do what you ask." 
 
 " \Miat you dare not take, I dare. Do not deny me, oh king. 
 Leave it to Weda to punish me." 
 
 " How wise you are," laughed tbe king. " As far as I am 
 concerned you may take what you like. I would like to see 
 whether Weda can not protect his own." 
 
 But at these words the crowd began to mutter. The Alruna 
 women made threatening gestures, and the priest stretched out 
 his wand toward the king. 
 
 " You have no right over the sacrifices of the gods," he called 
 out. " The young man shall hang from Weda's tree. If the 
 God of the Christians is mighty enough to save his life after that, 
 llie youth may go to Him and to His servant Wulfram." 
 
 At these words the Frisians cheered, 
 
 " IMay it l)c so," said Eathodo carelessly. " We will see who 
 is mightiest, Weda or Christ."
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 165 
 
 Then at a sign from the priest the youth was drawn up and 
 swung between heaven and earth. 
 
 At that Wulfram knelt down with arms outstretched and 
 eyes raised heavenward. The Frisians could readily see that such 
 a posture was ordinarily impossible for any length of time, and 
 yet the saint kept it up for nearly two hours. Without the 
 slightest tremor he knelt thus, his eyes alone showing his ecstasy. 
 
 The Frisians watched him with growing astonishment. Even 
 the Alruna women shook their heads in astonishment, and mut- 
 tered imprecations against the Christian magician. The priest, 
 however, stood with folded arms and a triumphant smile, for the 
 youth was long since quiet in death. 
 
 Eatbodo watched the proceeding in the attitude of the scoffer 
 and doubter. The whole appearance of the saint was puzzling 
 to him, and the suspicion that some unknown magic might pro- 
 duce such a result struggled with the thought that Wulfram was 
 really the messenger of the one true God. 
 
 Suddenly the saint arose and looked toward the tree from 
 which the youth was hanging. At the same moment the rope 
 broke and the dead body fell to the ground. The Frisians mar- 
 veled at the breaking of the thick rope, but they marveled even 
 more at the action of the saint. Moving, with an inexpressible 
 dignity, he went over to the corpse, and bending down, took the 
 dead hand, and said in a loud voice : 
 
 " In the name of the almighty God and Our Lord Jesus Christ, 
 1 command you to rise and live." 
 
 At once the dead youth arose. 
 
 The effect of the miracle was indescribable. At first the Fris- 
 ians stared in speechless fear at the scene. Then the spell broke 
 and a loud outcry went through the crowd, followed again by 
 silence. 
 
 The missionary stood in the center of the sacred circle and 
 called out : " I prayed to the almighty God that He would give a 
 sign in His mercy that would show you that there is but one God, 
 the Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things, at whose com- 
 mand even the dead come to life. Jesus Christ, the Saviour of
 
 166 KING RATBODO. 
 
 the world, has heard my prayers. You have seen the miracle 
 with your own eyes. Now I entreat you do not shut your cars 
 to the voice of God, which calls you to leave the darkness and de- 
 ception of your gods and enter into the kingdom of truth and 
 light. Whoever wants to live according to the law of the true 
 God, let him follow me." 
 
 With these words he took hold of Ovo\s hand and turned to go 
 away. 
 
 " The God of the Christians is the true God," rose in a mighty 
 cry from many throats, and men and women followed the bishop 
 in crowds. Others held back under the threats of the priest and 
 the Alruna women, and a wild confusion resulted. Eatbodo, how- 
 ever, looked on like a man who is well amused, and his chiefs 
 followed his example. 
 
 " It was but a make-believe scene of the tricky Frank," he 
 said to his companions, " for a dead man can not come to life." 
 
 In the mean time the saintly bishop was hurrying through the 
 forest with his following. Once out of the gloom of the pagan 
 grove, in the free sunshine of the summer day, he called his 
 flock together and talked to the wild crowd like a loving father 
 to ignorant children. In conclusion he invited them all to come 
 to him on the next day. 
 
 And the feast of Weda was going on all the while. The sac- 
 rificial beasts were killed and their blood sprinkled over the altar, 
 the walls of the temple, the statues, and, at last, the waiting 
 people. The Alruna women drank of the blood and groped in 
 the intestines of the dead animals. They were trying to find 
 Weda's answer to the king's question. 
 
 At last, covered with blood, they came out before the people 
 and raised their voices, saying: 
 
 " Hear, ye Frisians, the will of your god Weda ! Do not go 
 against the Franks now. Wait until Franks fight with Franks ! " 
 
 The impression made upon the crowd by the announcement 
 of the will of the god was not pleasant. There were mutterings 
 and discontented faces everywhere. A war-loving people does 
 not like to be told to wait. Nevertheless they bowed to the oracle.
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 167 
 
 Against the wish of Weda, and without his assistance, they never 
 ventured a fight. 
 
 Eatbodo liimself was pleased with the oracle. He remembe-^ed 
 the bloody defeats not long past, and was careful of meeting 
 Pepin and his Franks. 
 
 " It is a wise oracle/' he said to the sulking chieftains. " The 
 Franks have ten good fighters for every Frisian, but not every 
 Frisian can hold out against ten Franks, So it is best to wait 
 until they fight each other." 
 
 • " Since when does Ratbodo count his enemies ? " asked In- 
 gomar. 
 
 " I count them no more than yon do. I am only more sen- 
 sible, and watch for the circumstances which promise success." 
 
 " I think just as the king does," said Viderich, which showr 
 that even the Frisian barbarian had his court flatterers. 
 
 The horns were blowing again announcing now that the sacred 
 feast was ready. The king and the chieftains entered the temple, 
 and the crowd came up close. The hideous goblets of Weda were 
 taken from the shelves, and, standing in front of the altar, the 
 priest drank first in honor of the war god. Then he filled an- 
 other and passed it to the king, after that the chieftains dranlc, 
 and then the common people. Having taken the sacred drink in 
 the temple they wandered out into the grove. Here the kegs 
 of beer and mead were opened, and now they drank not out of 
 skulls, but from mighty horns. The sacrificial meats were eaten, 
 and then toward evening began a wild music. Thus dancing 
 and drinking in wildest abandon, the night closed in on the 
 feast, now a scene of utter debauchery. 
 
 III. 
 
 St. Wulfram and his monks had much work for a time. The 
 Frisians came in crowds for Christian instructions and baptism. 
 It was a great and hard task to teach human beings in the lowest 
 stage of development. Moreover, the teachings of the missionaries 
 were opposed in all things to the traditional customs of the people.
 
 168 KING RATBODO. 
 
 Many wrongs, such as slaver}'- for instance, could not be set aside 
 at once. Moreover, if the people were to be made peaceful and 
 weaned from their wildncss, they had to be taught other ways of 
 support than plundering and hunting. So the Benedictines taught 
 the converts not only Christian doctrine, but how to plow and 
 to plant. They built dunes to hold out the devastating sea, and 
 SL'nt to their abbey home at Fontinella for seeds and implements. 
 In a few years the face of Frisia was greatly changed. 
 
 Eatbodo had given Wull'ram land and a dwelling near his 
 own residence. In this way he could best keep track of every- 
 thing that liappened at the mission. 
 
 The king himself remained obdurate in his paganism. Once 
 he said, tauntingly, to the entreating Wulfram that if the Chris- 
 tian God would work a miracle for him especially he would be 
 converted. Wulfram reminded him of the miracles he had seen 
 and had not been converted. Then Eatbodo said that if the table 
 in front of him were changed into gold he would yield, but 
 Wulfram, in righteous indignation, told him how childish was 
 such a request. All the while the chieftains were urging the 
 king to send away the Bishop. But he laughed at them, saying 
 that what Wulfram had built up he himself would destroy in 
 ton days when the time came, just as had been done in the case of 
 Willibrord and Wilfred, Egbert and Wigbert and so on. Even the 
 king's little son, Clodio, was baptized and died a Christian, but 
 the king only smiled. His day was coming, he held. It still 
 suited his policy to be kind to a man who was in good standing 
 at the Xeustrian court. 
 
 Then Wulfram went back to Fontinella to get more monks, 
 laborers, and lay brothers for his work in Frisia. The con- 
 verted Frisians were beginning to realize the blessings of regular 
 and well-ordered work. There were more and more laborers and 
 fewer sea-robbers and warriors. Nevertheless, the great mass 
 of the Frisian people remained obstinate, following the example 
 of the king and the great chiefs. 
 
 Among the gods whose wrath the Frisians most feared was 
 the god of the sea. The lowness of the land made frequent in-
 
 eO¥RAD VON BOLANDEN. I6f? 
 
 undations inevitable. Besidies, Frisians, when not robbing, w^cre 
 fishing, or living on the water iia. some way. Thus they were 
 always anxious to pacify the mighty god' of the floods. 
 
 On this day, too, a great multitude, together' with the king' 
 and the chieftains, were gathered at the sea-coast, waiting to' 
 soothe the water deity by human sacrifice. The lot had fallen 
 on two little boys this time, the only children of a widow. At 
 the time of low tide the little ones were laid on a projecting 
 point of land so that the rising waters would cover them. Their 
 feet were tied so cunningly that the childish hands could not undo 
 the knots. Thus they sat on the beach waiting the waters that 
 were to be their death. 
 
 Several hundred feet back the crowds were gathered to watch 
 the unhappy spectacle. In the foreground sat a young woman, 
 the mother of the children, weeping and moaning in her grief, 
 without, however, waking the faintest sympathy in the hearts of 
 the bystanders. 
 
 The waters were even then advancing on the point of land, 
 and a strong wind was driving up the flood in great waves. The 
 little ones began to scream in terror as the spray struck them, 
 and the mother sprang to her feet. If she had not been held fast 
 she would have flung herself into the water with her children. 
 Gradually the land disappeared, nothing was left but the raised 
 point to which the children clung. One could see how the older 
 boy was trying to hold up his little brother. 
 
 " King ! " said a voice, ringing with a holy anger, " why this 
 abomination before the eyes of almighty God ? " 
 
 Eatbodo started and the chieftains stared in silent astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " We are offering sacrifice to the god of the waters," said the 
 king, after a moment. " Go take the victims away from him if 
 you can ; they may be your slaves and the slaves of your God for 
 the rest of time," he added with a sneer. 
 
 " So be it," answered Wulfram. Turning, he made the sign 
 of the cross over the rising tide and walked out as if on solid 
 land. The Christians present in the crowd cried aloud for joy.
 
 170 KING RATBODO. 
 
 but the pagans stood in wonder bordering on fear. The king 
 himself was most moved by the miraculous sight. His eyes were 
 fixed, his face pale as death. He was convinced that in the saint 
 walking thus unharmed over the waters he saw an unmistakable 
 manifestation of the power of the Christian God. 
 
 *' That is even more than a golden table," he whispered, 
 tremblingly. 
 
 Wulfram lifted the children out of the water and carried 
 them to the land. At once the Frisians crowded about him, 
 asking to be made Christians. Ratbodo himself said : 
 
 " It is but right that a man should keep his word, I said to 
 you years ago that if your God would make a golden table before 
 my eyes, I would become a Christian. But He did more. He 
 made a solid floor of the moving sea. Come to me every day and 
 instruct me." 
 
 At last the day of baptism arrived. The Frisians stood round 
 the baptismal font in a wide circle, most of them being menials 
 and slaves. Few free men and no chiefs seemed to desire the 
 grace of entering the kingdom of God. King Ratbodo, in his 
 rich clothing, looked contemptuously at the tattered, half-naked 
 crowd. Moreover the Christian teaching that the least was as 
 much before God as the greatest was not to his liking. All his 
 pride rebelled against being placed on a level with these crea- 
 tures, who could be bought and sold like cattle. After the cus- 
 tom of the time, those who were to be baptized stepped into the 
 water, standing thus, while the priest poured water over their 
 heads. It was the king's turn to be baptized. He had placed 
 one foot into the spring. He paused. 
 
 " One more question, bishop," he said. " I ask you and en- 
 treat you, in the name of God, to tell me whether the kings and 
 chiefs of the Frisian people are in the heavenly place which you 
 have promised me if I believe and am baptized, or whether they 
 are in the darkness of everlasting damnation." 
 
 The saint looked keenly at the questioner. He saw through 
 the pride of spirit, which at the last moment rebelled against its 
 associations and sought an escape from what seemed humilia-
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 171 
 
 tion. So the bishop did not answer coneiliatingly, but point- 
 edly: 
 
 " Only he who believes and is baptized may enter into the 
 glories of Christ." 
 
 Eatbodo drew his foot out of the water, raised himself proudly, 
 and said : 
 
 " Then I will rather go down to hell with my ancestors, the 
 rulers of Frisia, than to heaven with these beggars." 
 
 He turned and walked away with raised head. 
 
 After this nothing but the much desired friendship of the 
 western Franks kept Eatbodo from persecuting Wulfram. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At last the opportunity so long hoped for came. 
 
 Pepin of Heristal, called Major domus, and, in fact, ruler 
 of the whole great Frankish empire, died in 714. He left a 
 widow, Plectrudis, and several sons, of whom Charles, called 
 Martel, or the Hammer, was destined to play a great role in the 
 history of the world. Plectrudis hated Charles because he was 
 her stepson, and moreover the favorite of the eastern Franks, the 
 Austrasians. Pepin was barely dead when she had Charles im- 
 prisoned. It was her intention to make Grimoald, her own son, 
 ruler. Grimoald, however, who had taken to wife Teutsinde, the 
 daughter of the Frisian Eatbodo, was assassinated by a Frisian. 
 Then Plectrudis centered her ambitious plans in Theudebald, 
 Grimoald's son, and, of course, her grandson. She herself acted 
 as regent. 
 
 But the ]N"eustrians, or western Franks, held in check until 
 now by Pepin's strong arm, took the opportunity to rebel against 
 -the dominion of the eastern Franks. 
 
 Chilperic II., King of Neustria, made a treaty with the 
 Frisian king, and together they attacked the Austrasians from 
 opposite sides at the same time. Eatbodo swept over the land like 
 a storm wave. He first retook South Frisia, drove out the Franks, 
 burned churches and convents, banished the priests and restored
 
 173 ^ KING RATBODO. 
 
 the old gods. Wliat St. Willibrord, the Archbishop of Utrecht, 
 had built up in many years, was destroyed in a few days. Drunken 
 with victory, triumphant over the reconquest of South Frisia, 
 Katbodo invaded Austrasia, carrying fire and rapine and ruin 
 wherever he went. Thus he finally reached Cologne, where he 
 joined the forces of the Xeustrians. 
 
 The towers and walls of Cologne stopped him here, and he 
 and his hordes comprehended for the first time the value of cities 
 and fast places. 
 
 Plectrudis was in Cologne with her grandchildren and her 
 treasures. She tried to buy off the Frisians and to induce them 
 to return home by offering them great sums of money, Eatbodo 
 was well satisfied to accept her offers. He had won back South 
 Frisia and gratified for the time the instincts of greed and battle 
 in his people. 
 
 The Xeustrians made no objection to his departure. They, 
 too, were homeward bent, for in the distance new storm clouds 
 were arising. Charles Martel had escaped from his jailers and 
 was gathering the eastern Franks for the fight. 
 
 Eatbodo did not get very far. At Stablo Charles Martel over- 
 took him and thoroughly " hammered " him. Once more the Fri- 
 sian king promised to become a peaceable Christian and to put 
 nothing in the way of the missionaries in North Frisia. He did not 
 keep the first part of the promise this time either, although he 
 did the second. Moreover, the king was melancholy since his 
 last defeat. Sometimes he was tired of life. His bravest chiefs 
 had fallen in the fight Avith Martel. Every year there were fewer 
 sea-robbers and more laborers. Weda himself had been false to 
 his promise of help in the expedition against Austrasia. In addi- 
 tion, the king was tortured by a certain fear of hell. He did not 
 like the thought of an everlasting thirst, for Eatbodo could not 
 stand thirst, and emptied many mighty horns every day with his 
 boon companions trying to keep from getting thirsty. And had 
 not Wulfram said that the thirst of hell was much greater than 
 the thirst of this life ? 
 
 Then, at last, the Frisian l)arl)arian hatched out a compro-
 
 CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 173 
 
 mise with his conscience and his desires. He would be baptized 
 and believe everything that was asked of him, but he would cling 
 to his old habits here, and if possible get the best of things on the 
 other side too. On this basis he asked the holy bishop, Wulfram, 
 to baptize him. 
 
 " It is impossible, gracious king/' said the saint. " You 
 would like to believe as a Christian, but live as a pagan, and that 
 is not to be done. We are not saved by faith alone, but by faith 
 and works. Jesus Christ says : ' Wilt thou enter into life, keep 
 My commandments.' If you wish to escape eternal damnation, 
 you must become a Christian in faith and in works." 
 
 Eatbodo did not like the answer. He thought Wulfram a 
 hard and obstinate man. Archbishop Willibrord, he believed, 
 would be more lenient. So he sent his confidant, Viderich, to 
 Utrecht, where Charles Martel had restored the saintly bishop 
 to his see. 
 
 Willibrord received the royal messenger most kindly. 
 
 " But why," he asked, " if your king will not hearken to the 
 voice of my brother in the holy office, should he listen to me ? " 
 
 " But he will," Viderich assured him. " You are his favorite, 
 and he will let himself be baptized by you." 
 
 The almost eighty-year-old Willibrord shook his bowed head 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " I am afraid it is too late. I have a feeling that the king 
 will not be living when we get there." 
 
 " That feeling does not mean an}i;hing," Viderich answered. 
 " The king is as chipper as a fish in the water. Therefore come, 
 holy man, and hasten to do as the king wishes." 
 
 The weak old bishop started out, but after the first day's 
 journey, a messenger met them with the announcement that Eat- 
 bodo had died without baptism. 
 
 " What a terrible lot," said the Archbishop sadly. " How 
 many times God's grace was manifested to him by the preachings 
 of the missionaries, by miracles, and signs. How long-suffering 
 was the mercy of God, and yet over and over again he refused 
 to yield to its inspirations."
 
 174 KING RATBODO. 
 
 Bemoaning thus the misfortune of Ratbodo, Willibrord re- 
 turned to Utrecht. 
 
 Wulfram left Frisia the next year, A. D. 720, unable to stand 
 the hardships of missionary life any longer on account of his ad- 
 vancing age. He went to the Abbey of Fontinella, where he 
 lived thereafter as a simple monk and died in a few years. But 
 what he had wrought in the land of the Frisians during twenty 
 years of hardship did not perish, for he was followed almost at 
 once by the great apostle of the Germans — St, Boniface.
 
 ANTONIE HAUPT. 
 
 Antonie Haupt is the pen-name of Victorine Endler, who was 
 born in Treves, on January 17, 1853. the oldest daughter of a 
 well-knov/n physician, Dr. Bleser, and his wife Anna, whose maiden 
 name was Jacoby. Dr. Bleser was noted as a man of broad culture 
 in many directions, and directed the studies of his children 
 himself. When he died suddenly, in 1878, his daughters, Victorine 
 and Maria, began to write, primarily as a relief from the profound 
 sorrow and loneliness which the death of such a father naturally
 
 brought into their lives and hearts. Maria has become well 
 known and liked under the name of Alinda Jacoby. Victorine. 
 following the trend of her father's teachings, turned especially to 
 historical fiction, finding her material chiefly in the traditions of 
 her picturesque native city. The chronicles of the ancient city 
 of Treves and of the beautiful Moselle Valley have furnished her 
 with the motives of many of her stories. Sometimes she chooses 
 the romantic past of her second home in Hildesheim, where she 
 has lived since 1887, when she was married to Bernard Endler, 
 a merchant of Hanover. On the same day, May 26, her sister, 
 Maria, married Herr Krug, a manufacturer of Mayence. Even 
 though housewives and mothers, it has been vouchsafed to both of 
 the sisters to continue their literary activities. 
 
 The following of Antonie Haupt's novels have appeared in book 
 form: " Ein Adlicher Spross," "Im Anker," " Ein Moseliied," 
 "Die letzte Grafin von Manderscheid," " Haideroslein," "Das 
 Geheimniss des Waldes von St. Arnual," "Die Tochter des 
 Alemannenkonigs," " Der V/eg zum Gliick," " Das Goldene Dich 
 zu Hildesheim," " Hexe und Jesuit," "Der Heilige Rock." and 
 " Bernward von Hildesheim." Her shorter stories and sketches 
 have appeared in many periodicals. Her style is easy and 
 piquant and, in the presentation of the peculiarities and customs 
 of long past days, she shows a marvelous wealth of detail that 
 gives an air of vivid realism to her writings.
 
 IRicbolas Cusanus* 
 
 BY ANTONIE HAUPT. 
 I. 
 
 " Well, Catherine ! Now that our house is all locked up 
 from garret to cellar, we can go to the boat with easy minds and 
 start for the Netherlands." 
 
 Thus spoke the boatman and shipper, Nicholas Krebs of Kues 
 on the Moselle, as he turned the key to his house door twice. 
 Then he drew two more bolts and fastened them with padlocks, 
 and he and his good wife Catherine, and their two little daugh- 
 ters, Clara and Margaret, started toward the river. The only 
 son, Claus, was waiting for them down on the boat. His father 
 had sent him on ahead of the rest to scour and clean the deck 
 thoroughly before the journey. 
 
 It was still very early in the morning. Through the rising 
 mists one could faintly see the outlines of the boat piled high 
 with oak bark from the surrounding hills. The boatman Krebs 
 meant to sell it to rich tanners on the way down, and bring back 
 coal from the Low Countries when returning. He had 
 been doing this many a long year and had, indeed, made con- 
 siderable money at it. 
 
 He would have been well pleased with his good trade as a 
 boatman and shipper, and with his lit'tle family, if only his son 
 Claus had shown any aptitude for following in his father's ways 
 and becoming a boatman and shipper also. Blows and scoldings 
 were often the lot of the boy, but they did no good. 
 
 " Oh, father," his wife would plead sometimes, " do not 
 be so hard on the boy. He has a different spirit from ours and 
 we can not hold him down." 
 
 177
 
 178 NICHOLAS CVSANUS. 
 
 But Krebs would fly into a fury at this. " The boy must 
 obey me, or I'll beat him until he does. When I think he has 
 mended the sails, I find him buried in a piece of old parchment, 
 trying to make out what the curls and scratches on it mean. 
 When I think that he has rolled up the ropes 1 find him in a 
 corner with some old chronicle, doing nothing. Things must 
 change, or the cup of my endurance will run over." 
 
 And that same thing happened that very morning, on the 
 first day of the month of jo}'. May, 1413. For the deck was any- 
 thing but clean, and the negligent one was not to be found any- 
 M'here. At last Nicholas discovered him crouched in a corner of 
 the cabin, and so absorbed in the parchment pages before him 
 that he did not hear his father's coming. Suddenly blows fell 
 on his knowledge-loving head like hail on a summer field. 
 
 " Good-for-nothing, that is the way you do your duty !" The 
 angry father wrenched the pigskin volume out of his hand and 
 threw it onto the shore. 
 
 " But father, father," entreated the boy, " the chronicle does 
 not belong to me. I must give it back to the young Counts of 
 Manderscheid. They were in Kues not long ago with their tutor 
 and I showed them the church." 
 
 A terrible fury seized the man. " If you think more of 
 your chronicle than you do of your father, you should follow it 
 and not me. I am not your father — I disown you." Pie seized 
 the poor little fellow and flung him ashore, too, where he lay, 
 senseless. 
 
 Mistress Catherine came wringing her hands and weeping. 
 
 " Father, what have you done ? Have pity on your only 
 son." 
 
 "Women's tears disgust me," he said, and then added sar- 
 castically, " Wipe your eyes in peace. The likes of him is not so 
 easily killed. You will see your darling Claus again." 
 
 Tiittle did he dream how she would see her son again! And 
 leaving him there, Nicliolas Krebs sailed down the Moselle. 
 
 When the poor little boy Krebs had thrown ashore came back 
 to his senses, the precious chronicle was the very first thing he
 
 ANTONIE HAUPT. 179 
 
 looked for. He found it, a little spattered with mud, to be sure, 
 but otherwise unspoiled. Then, feeling deeply guilty on account 
 of his disobedience, and crying bitterly, he went to the house of 
 his father's sister and asked her to take him in. He did not 
 know any other place to go to. , 
 
 But she told him to go on. 
 
 " Away with you," she said, " you lazy thief of time ! Your 
 father was right to put you out. What shall I do with you ? Go 
 try for yourself now and see what you can earn." 
 
 She cut a great slice from a loaf of bread of her own baking 
 and threw it to him. " There is something for you on your 
 way." 
 
 Claus took the bread humbly, put it in his pocket and said : 
 
 " I thank you, aunt." 
 
 And then he went on. 
 
 Mistress Annemarie looked after him as he walked along, so 
 dejected and miserable. 
 
 " It is better so. The boy must learn the hardness of life 
 and be made to understand that reading books and doing nothing 
 bring no profit to any one." Thus she tried to excuse herself for 
 her treatment of him. 
 
 Above Kues, on the banks of the Moselle, there was a little 
 wayside shrine, dedicated to St. Nicholas, the patron of sailors 
 and boatmen. The holy bishop stood there, life size, in his 
 pontifical robes, holding a basket full of children, whom, ac- 
 cording to the tradition, he is said to have brought back to life 
 after they were dead. 
 
 Here the outcast child stopped and knelt down. He lifted up 
 his great dark eyes and prayed trustingly. 
 
 " 0, my dear patron, pray for me to the good Lord that He 
 may forgive my sin against my father. Be my helper and pro- 
 tector now, for my own father has cast me off, as I deserved. You 
 were a great friend of the children — help me, too. I trust in your 
 guidance. Help me to find a place where I may work and become 
 a useful man. 0, I will do any kind of work without grumbling. 
 Prompt me that I may know whither I should turn." ^
 
 180 NICHOLAS CUSANU8. 
 
 As he knelt there praying with clasped hands, something fell 
 noisily to the ground. It was the chronicle. 
 
 " Oh, yes, my holy patron," said the boy. " You remind me 
 that before I go out into the wide world I must give this back to 
 its owners. The young counts were going to call for it them- 
 selves at my home. But they can not do so now, for 1 no longer 
 have a home." 
 
 He fervently said another " Our Father." Then he rose. 
 
 " Now for Manderscheid," he whispered. 
 
 He stepped out into the soft spring air and the warm sunshine. 
 The waves of the Moselle murmured softly, and boats glided over 
 the clear waters. Over the high hills across from him hung a 
 bluish mist. It was a joyous May day. But Glaus saw nothing. 
 He was thinking: " How can I get to Manderscheid? " 
 
 Then the little fellow remembered that he heard some one 
 say casually that the castle of the Manderscheids rose above 
 the Licser brook. " Then I will go to the brook and if I follow 
 it, in time I must come to the castle." 
 
 He started on, up the Moselle, and soon found the mouth of 
 the Lieser. For fear of losing the w^ay he clung to the water, 
 even when the path seemed to follow shorter paths inland. 
 " If I stick to the water I can not get lost," he told himself. 
 
 He quenched his thirst with the clear water of the brook, and 
 when he was hungry ate of tlio bread his aunt had given him. He 
 could not have brought himself to beg for anything in the 
 little places he passed as he traveled along. But when night 
 came he was frightened. Fortunately he saw a shepherd bringing 
 his sheep into the pen. Glaus went up to him and asked: 
 
 " Is it far to the castle of Manderscheid ? " 
 
 The old herder, who was walking along slowly knitting at a 
 stocking, pushed his weather-worn shepherd's hat on one side of 
 his head, and looked at the strange boy in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, lad," he said then. " If that is where you want to 
 go, it will take you four hours longer. It would be better for you 
 to look for shelter in the next village, and stay the night, and go 
 on your journey to-morrow,"
 
 AN TON IE HAUPT. 181 
 
 **But I can't do that. I haven't any money/' said Claus, 
 barely able to keep his tears back. The old man looked at the 
 pretty boy with a kindly scrutiny. 
 
 " You do not look like the child of poor people. Did you run 
 away from your parents?'' 
 
 " Oh, no, no," he said, " My father cast me off because I v/as 
 disobedient." 
 
 " So, a little good-for-nothing ? How did that happen ? " 
 
 " Oh, good man, I can not tell you now, I am so tired." 
 
 And truly the poor fellow looked as if he would sink down. 
 
 " I am sorry for you, child," said the old man. " Come 
 with me. I will give you shelter in my hut for the night. I 
 have two out here. My little grandson, about as big as you, often 
 comes and stays out in the fields with me all night." 
 
 Perhaps the old man was thinking of his grandson even 
 then. When they came to the hut he pointed to the trunk of a 
 tree, and told the boy to sit down. Then he brought him bread 
 and a bowl of warm goat's milk, 
 
 Claus took what was offered him thankfully and did not need 
 to be urged to eat. How often he had wished he might spend a 
 night out in the fields with the shepherd lads, and yet, now that 
 he had his wish, his heart was very heavy. But he slept very 
 well and woke up the next morning fresh and hopeful. The 
 larks were singing and the sheep crowding toward the gates. 
 The little grandson came soon and brought a nourishing oatmeal 
 soup and bread and butter. The old man loyally shared this 
 tempting breakfast with the little stranger. 
 
 " jSTow go," he said to the boy, " in God's name. Trust in 
 Him who sends us rain and sunshine. You have told me your 
 story, and I know that you are not a bad boy. Do not cry any 
 more. Sadness does not mend anything. You, Peter, show 
 Claus the way across the rocks. Now go on together." 
 
 The boys started off. Peter knew the paths that led between 
 the steep, moss-grown rocks. After a little while they came to a 
 plateau. In the distance, higher bill tops rose from it. Peter 
 pointed to the highest one of them all:
 
 182 NICHOLAS CUSAXUS. 
 
 " See, that is the Mosenberg. A long time ago he threw out 
 streams of liro. Keep to the left and you will get to Mander- 
 scheid without taking the hard road along the brook." 
 
 Claus thanked his little guide and went on merrily. It was 
 not yet noon when he reached the village, lying up high in the 
 hills, and looked across the deep ravine through which the Lieser 
 poured in torrents. Two steep crags rose out of the ravine and 
 above them, the towers of the castle. At the welcome sight the 
 boy began to run. In a few minutes he was at the castle gate. 
 The drawbridge was let down and the gate was open. It was a 
 time of peace. So he entered unhindered into the court. 
 
 Here — what delight ! — his young friends, the sons of the 
 Count, were playing games on the green grass. Silent and shy, 
 Claus remained in the arch of the gate and watched the play. 
 
 Diedrich, the oldest, and the heir, saw him first and called out 
 delightedly : 
 
 " Claus, Claus, our little scholar from Kues ! " 
 
 William, the wildest of the lot, ran toward Claus and gave 
 him such a hug that the slight little fellow was almost crushed. 
 
 Then Ulric, a serious, pleasant boy came forward : 
 
 " Let Claus alone. He is my friend. He is coming to see me. 
 and to return my chronicle. Isn't it so ? " 
 
 Claus could only nod his head. 
 
 Ulric went on : " You are heartily welcome to our home." 
 
 " Yes," added Diedrich. " You shall be shown every courtesy 
 as our guest." 
 
 But as Claus was still silent, while the tears rolled down 
 his cheeks, the boys were alarmed, and went after their tutor, 
 the wise doctor of theology, Conradus. 
 
 The reverend gentleman who now came along in his plain, 
 black soutane was soldier, priest and scholar. He had accom- 
 panied the Count to the Holy Land and now he was chaplain and 
 tutor at the castle. He took the boy's hand and said kindly: 
 
 " Tell me your trouble, dear child. Maybe T can help you." 
 
 Then Claus' tongue was loosened, and he told his tale in a few, 
 quick words.
 
 ANTON IE HAUPT. 183 
 
 A look of great sympathy came into the clergyman's eyes. 
 
 " Do not worry, my child," he said. " God is pleased with 
 your contrition. He will not forsake you. I will put in a good 
 word for you at once with the Count, and ask him to give you 
 some work. Just wait here." Then he went into the castle. 
 
 Claus began to feel safe already. 
 
 The Count's sons crowded around him, and stroked his hands 
 sympathetically. 
 
 " Poor Claus ! You will have to come and stay with us all the 
 time." At once they began to make plans for their future amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 Claus' heart was beating in expectation, but he had begun to 
 smile again when Dr. Conradus returned and said to him: 
 
 " The Count would like to see you. Come with me." 
 
 In a narrow, high-arched room, the library of the castle. 
 Count Diedrich I., of Manderscheid, sat at a writing-table. Be- 
 fore him were rolls of parchment and bundles of deeds and 
 manuscripts. The shelves about him were filled with documents, 
 treating of the rights and duties of subjects and rulers, and 
 agreements with the lords of adjoining estates. Not the least in 
 it all were the family documents and chronicles. 
 
 The chief treasure, in the eyes of the Count, was a copy of the 
 Holy Scriptures, which he had, in part, transcribed himself and 
 illuminated with beautiful designs and initial letters. There 
 were also the songs of the troubadours and the minne-singers, 
 which he had gathered during the Crusades, transcribed and 
 illuminated also by his own labor and skill. 
 
 Count Diedrich was of a different temper from most of the 
 knights of his time and vicinity. He was a scholar. His en- 
 thusiasm for the Holy Land had inspired him at one time to 
 make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem accompanied by his wife Eliza- 
 beth. There he fought against the Saracens for the holy places, 
 and was made a knight by a German Prince in the year 1390. 
 Plis armor, and that of his wife, still adorn the halls of his de- 
 scendants and show many a mark of Saracen blows. 
 
 The Count himself was large and powerful, wdth clear cut
 
 184 NICHOLAS CUSANU8. 
 
 features and deep blue eyes, thai had something of the look of 
 the dreamer and the mystic. This was the man whom Clans 
 approached now with fear and trembling. 
 
 ** You are welcome, little Cusanus. My good Dr. Conradus 
 has spoken so well of you that 1 am disposed to keep you here 
 and give you some easy work. You are to herd the cows and 
 horses every afternoon, but never to take a book along with you 
 while you are herding. Will you do that ? " 
 
 " 0, I shall be so glad to do everything you tell me, gracious 
 sir," Clans answered humbly. 
 
 A smile hovered about the Count's lips. 
 
 " Well, then, I command you strictly, and I must not be dis- 
 obeyed. Every morning, between the time of the morning soup 
 and the noon-day meal, you are to share my sons' instructions and 
 try to learn something." 
 
 Clans stood speechless and immovable at these words. Then 
 suddenly a great happiness overcame him, and forgetting his 
 shyness he fell on his knees before the Count and kissed his 
 hands. 
 
 " How can I thank you, sir ? " he stammered. 
 
 " By your actions," the Count answered quietly. " Go now 
 to my sons. To-day you may share their play. But first go to 
 the kitchen and let them give you something to eat — you must 
 be hungry." 
 
 The life that began now was such as Claus had never dared 
 to hope for. Breathlessly, with infinite desire for Icnowledge, he 
 followed the teachings of the learned Dr. Conradus. His en- 
 thusiasm and eagerness carried the Count's sons with him, so that 
 Count Diedrich blessed the day when he had taken in the little 
 outcast. 
 
 When Claus was herding the cattle and horses in the after- 
 noon, the young counts and their tutor generally came down to 
 the pasture. And a jolly herding it was then. The herders and 
 the colts leaped and played, trying to outdo each other. The tutor 
 often had hard work to bring his pupils home in the evening. 
 
 Thus several years passed.
 
 ANTONIE HAUPT. 185 
 
 Then Dr. Conradus weut to the Count one day and said : 
 
 " My task is ended. I can do no more for your sons, nor for 
 the youth Chius of Kues. It might be well to send your sons 
 now to the great college at Deventer, and, if you want to do a 
 good deed, send Claus of Kues along with them. If this youth 
 is permitted to continue his studies, I promise you that he will 
 astonish the world some day and be a light of learning." 
 
 Count Diedrich nodded: 
 
 " I have thought that same thing. Claus shall go to Deventer 
 also." 
 
 And thus it happened that Claus, or rather Nicholas, for he 
 had grown to be a handsome young man by this time, and his 
 three young friends, the Counts of Manderscheid, went to that 
 famous school of the Netherlands, which the " Brethren of the 
 Life in Common " conducted at Deventer. 
 
 After completing his studies in this model school, he was 
 sent to the University of Padua by his generous patron, where 
 he was made a Doctor of Law and a Doctor of Divinity, and 
 then took Holy Orders, as he felt that he had a vocation for the 
 priestly life. 
 
 11. 
 
 Soft and golden the autumn sun fell into the valley of the 
 Moselle in the year 1451. It flooded the steep hills, with their 
 vinegrown terraces, and the wide stretches of oak forests, all 
 brilliant with many hues. 
 
 Everything was touched with the glory of color, and above all 
 the riot of tints arched the faintly blue sky. The waves of the 
 Moselle glittered and glistened, and boats and skiffs enlivened 
 the river. From the Electors castle, above the little town of 
 Bernkastel, the yellow and blue flag of the electorate fluttered in 
 the breeze, and sent greetings across the river to Kues. 
 
 What unusual activity bestirred the beautiful valley of the 
 Moselle? From Bernkastel to Kues boats were crossing con- 
 tinually, filled with people in holiday attire. From the hills
 
 186 NICHOLAS CUSANUS. 
 
 people came down in long streams. The banks of the river were 
 alive with expectant groups. 
 
 A message of joy had reached Kues : The noblest son of the 
 valley, the intellectual giant and the prince of the Church, the 
 famous Cardinal Cusanus, is coming to visit his native town. 
 The fame of his greatness has long since reached even this quiet 
 corner of the Moselle Valley. He, who has traveled through 
 most of the civilized world, is passing from place to place, since 
 the first of the year, as Papal Legate in the German countries, 
 announcing the jubilee of Nicholas Y., and working toward the 
 spiritual regeneration of convents and clergy. Ilis success is 
 wonderful. A fresh breath of inspiration and of regeneration is 
 coming to the Church through Cusanus. 
 
 The Cardinal Nicholas Krebs of Kues was the son of that 
 sailor who once threw his too studious boy off his boat and left 
 him to his fate as a good-for-nothing. 
 
 On the spot where the boy struck the land there was now a 
 stately group of buildings with a Gothic church. It was not yet 
 completed and was destined to be a hospital for old and crippled 
 people. The founder of the place was none other than Cardinal 
 Nicholas Cusanus. 
 
 His father had long since giving up shipping and was now 
 living as a well-to-do burgher in the old stone house on the banks 
 of the Moselle. His housewife, Mistress Catherine, was still 
 alive. But the old people were very lonesome. 
 
 Since the memorable day when he cast him off, Krebs had not 
 seen his son. His two daughters, Margaret and Clara, were not 
 at home either. The Cardinal took care that his sisters were 
 educated in the fine female school he founded. Thus it hap- 
 pened that distinguished men were suitors for the hands of the 
 Cardinal's handsome sisters. Clara was married to the praetor, 
 or mayor, of Treves, Paul von Brysich. Margaret had married 
 the Court Bailiff Matthias at Bernkastel. Both couples had 
 hastened to Kues and were standing behind their parents in the 
 pushing, eager crowd. As the son of a boatman, the famouS; 
 simple-hearted man wanted to come to his old home on a boat.
 
 AN TON IE HAVPT. 187 
 
 The news that the Papal Legate would come from Treves to 
 Kues on the seventh day of the first autumn month brought 
 Paul von Brysich himself to Kues, with the news of the Cardinal's 
 coming. And then Kues and the neighborhood began to pre- 
 pare for a worthy reception. A landing was hastily constructed 
 to reach to the ship. Over it a triumphal arch was built, deco- 
 rated with pine trees and bright with flags and streamers. The 
 houses were hung with garlands and flags. Flowers and carpets 
 covered the streets from the landing-place to the church. 
 
 Under the triumphal arch, however, stood the venerable priest 
 of Kues with the abbot of Sponheim and of Springirsbach in 
 festival robes and surrounded by their assistants, together with 
 the clergy of neighboring places. 
 
 The four Counts of Manderscheid had also ridden up in 
 great state. They would not be denied the honor of carrying 
 the canopy under which the famous man was to walk. 
 
 With mingled feelings of expectation and remorse, the old 
 parents stood timidly behind all these great ones. 
 
 " Oh, mother, how will our learned son approach us ? " the 
 old man said nervously to his wife. She, dressed in the simple 
 and unassuming manner which she had always followed, did not 
 answer. She listened instead ecstatically to the conversation of 
 the Abbots of Sponheim and of Springirsbach. The Abbot of 
 Sponheim had just said: 
 
 " Truly Cardinal Cusanus seems like an angel of light and 
 of peace in the midst of the darkness and confusion which is in 
 Germany. He is succeeding in restoring harmony and unity 
 in the Church and the authority of the Holy Father. He is 
 sowing a rich and fruitful seed of faith and charity. One might 
 call him the apostle of piety and of learning. It is wonderful how 
 this great spirit can settle all controversies peacefully." 
 
 Then the Abbot of Springirsbach added : 
 
 "But his activity is just as great and as beneficent in the 
 realms of natural history, and of mathematics, and astronomy. 
 He fills me with awe. One could think him a magician, if he 
 were not known as a model of priestly virtues. Just think, he
 
 188 NICHOLAS CUSANUS. 
 
 claims that the earth turns on its own axis and keeps up a pro- 
 gressive motion around the sun ! "* 
 
 The Abbot of Sponhcim shook his head thoughtful!}^ : 
 
 " If he is right, he will be praised some day as the greatest 
 mind of our age." 
 
 " Oh, he is that anyway — " 
 
 Then suddenly the church bells of Lieser, of Andel, of 
 Bernkastel, and of Kues began to ring, so that the echoes came 
 back from the hills. 
 
 " The Cardinal's boat is in sight,"' was the message that had 
 come from the lookout on the hills. 
 
 At last the boat came gliding along majestically, flying the 
 papal colors beside those of Treves, and hung over and over with 
 draperies and rugs of cardinal red. Under the canopy stood the 
 Cardinal himself, surrounded by clergy, high officials, and mem- 
 bers of the nobility. 
 
 First there was an awed silence, as in a church; then, how- 
 ever, the cheers broke forth like the roar of the surf : 
 
 " Long live Cusanus ! Long live the Cardinal ! '' Kerchiefs 
 were waved and hats thrown into the air. As the boat ap- 
 proached the landing-place, there was silence again, however. 
 The Cardinal, tall and strong, with his face shaded by the red 
 hat, his figure enveloped in the red robe, stepped on shore. His 
 big, dark eyes lighted with enthusiasm as he looked upon the 
 scenes of his childhood. He looked down, and it seemed as if 
 the mighty man would kiss the ground of his native land, but he 
 did not. His fine energetic face, with its full red lips, and 
 straight, classical nose grew tender, however, for a moment. 
 
 The priest of Kues stepped up before the Cardinal and greeted 
 him in Latin as the founder of the hospital, the benefactor of 
 the town for all time. 
 
 After Cusanus had answered fittingly, in Latin also, the 
 clergy and people knelt and asked for the episcopal blessing. 
 
 * Nkholas of Ciisa was, as is woU litiown. tlio forcninnor of (^oporniriis 
 and of Galileo In ranlntnininp llio immobility of the sun as the center of the 
 planetary system.
 
 ANTONIE HAVPT. 189 
 
 During this time Nicholas Krebs and his wife had drawn back 
 more and more. Krebs nudged his wife: 
 
 " God help us," he said, " if this great gentleman is our son.'' 
 
 But Mistress Catherine answered, much moved : 
 
 " He is. He is my son." 
 
 The four Counts of Manderscheid came forward and raised 
 the canopy. But the Cardinal was looking into the crowd. He 
 had heard a feeble voice cry: 
 
 " Claus, my son ! " 
 
 Then suddenly he moved toward a little old woman, opened 
 his arms, and clasped her tenderly to him. 
 
 " Mother," he said. " Mother, I have you again. God has 
 kept you for me." 
 
 But the old woman said shamefacedly, while the tears stood 
 in her eyes : 
 
 " I am not worthy of such a son. Here is your father." 
 
 Yes, there stood Nicholas Krebs, timid and ashamed, his hat 
 in his hand : " My son and Lord Cardinal, can you forgive me, 
 that I once threw you out into the world, not understanding the 
 greatness of your mind ? " 
 
 Cusanus laughed. " My dear father, that was a good deed. 
 You see it turned into a blessing for me. Forgive the lazy boy, 
 in your turn, and then everything will be well." Then he kissed 
 his father, too. 
 
 He held out his hand lovingly to his sister Clara, and motioned 
 to her husband, the Mayor of Treves, to step up. Then he 
 looked about. 
 
 " Where is my sister Margaret ? " 
 
 Some one came rustling up in a gold-brocade gown, with a 
 purple cloak, stiff with gold embroideries. The lady, whose beau- 
 tiful head was crowned with jewels, bowed low, and said : 
 
 " Lord Cardinal, I am your sister Margaret, now the wife of 
 the Court-Bailiff Matthias of Bernkastel." 
 
 The Cardinal's dark eyes looked her up and down, as if he had 
 never seen her. 
 
 " You are not my sister. No one belonging to me dresses in
 
 190 NICHOLAS CUSANU8. 
 
 such costly clothes/" and then he turned away and left Margaret 
 weeping. 
 
 The Cardinal was led to the church and then the pontifical 
 Mass began. Scarcely a tenth of those who had come could enter 
 the church, but those who stood outside also took an ardent part 
 in the holy celebration. 
 
 When the ceremonies at the church were over, the Cardinal 
 was escorted to the refectory of the hospital he had founded. 
 The buildings were not yet completed, but the garlands and 
 draperies hid all that. All the rich families of the neighbor- 
 hood had sent draperies and carpets to help decorate the hall. 
 A table arranged in the form of a horseshoe, and covered with 
 satiny linen, filled three sides. Gold and silver tableware glittered 
 on it, all joyously loaned for the great occasion. The middle 
 section of the table was raised. Here the Counts of Mander- 
 scheid put up their canopy. 
 
 That was a joyous meeting between the counts and the Car- 
 dinal. To be sure, the Cardinal's noble benefactor, the old Count 
 Diedrich, was gone. His son Diedrich had taken his place and 
 was much beloved by his subjects. 
 
 The earnest and thoughtful Ulric, whom Claus had loved 
 particularly, had died in 1436 as'Bishop of Treves. Two of the 
 counts were canons in Cologne, and one was a monk in Eehter- 
 nach. The last one whispered to Cusanus: "We did not 
 get as far as you have." The Cardinal answered solemnly: 
 " Everything that I have done with the help of God, I owe to 
 your noble father and his charity, and I remember him every day, 
 when I say the holy Mass." 
 
 As the assembled guests prepared to go to table, the Cardinal 
 asked that on this, his great day, his parents be placed as his 
 neighbors on the right and on the left. Opposite him he 
 washed to have his sister Clara and her husband, the Mayor of 
 Treves. His sister Margaret in the mean time had come back, 
 humbly attired in simple garments, asking the Cardinal's for- 
 giveness. 
 
 "' I thought I owed yop that tribute to your greatness," she
 
 ANTONIE HAUPT. 191 
 
 said in excuse. Then he asked that Margaret and her husband 
 be placed opposite him, too. 
 
 Thus the day became a happy family reunion for the Cardinal. 
 
 In spite of all the formal grandeur which surrounded him, 
 and which he had to permit on account of his position, and in 
 spite of the great reputation that he had won for himself, 
 Nicholas Cusanus preserved, in his own private life, a patriarchal 
 simplicity. 
 
 That sunny day in September of 1451, on which he celebrated 
 a reunion with all the companions of his youth still left in this 
 world, had been a day of unclouded happiness for the Cardinal. 
 Even so, it was a day of glory to the inhabitants of the Moselle 
 valley for many miles around. Long after the great man had 
 passed on his blessed way, they still talked of it. 
 
 The Cardinal died on August 11, in 1464, after a visit to 
 Todi in Umbria, where he went as the Papal Legate. He was 
 then Prince Bishop of Brixen. 
 
 The beautiful monument, which he made for himself when 
 he founded the hospital of Kues, is still standing, and continues 
 to this day in its blessed work. The buildings are in perfect 
 preservation inside and out, just as the Cardinal had them built. 
 Thirty-three weak old men are cared for in the hospital. The 
 cruciform wings, and the beautiful Gothic church adjoining, are 
 one of the sights of the vicinity. Here, beneath a metal plate, 
 rests the heart of the great man, and beside him lies his favorite 
 sister Clara. Her memorial stone has a fine portrait in relief of 
 her. 
 
 On the wall of the refectory is a painting of Cusanus and 
 under it is inscribed : 
 
 " A true representation of the Eeverendissimi et illustrissimi 
 Nicolaus von Cusa, Cardinal and Bishop of Brixen, Founder of 
 the Hospital at Kues." 
 
 Honor be to his memory !
 
 REV. JOSEPH SPILL'MANN, SJ. 
 
 Father Spillmann was born on April 22, 1842, in Zug, 
 Switzerland. In his short stories he gives a vivid and moving 
 description of his picturesque native town. The boy began his 
 studies at the gymnasium of his home town. His delicate health, 
 however, interrupted these studies for a time and he went to work 
 in his father's mill. This active exercise was so beneficial that 
 he was soon enabled to resume his studies, going to the Jesuit 
 College at Feldkirch this time. After staying here for four years 
 he went to the Jesuit novitiate of Gorheim near Sigmaringen. 
 After that, together with Baumgartner and other friends of his 
 Feldkirch days, he studied at Munster in Westphalia. Then he
 
 took up philosophy at the monastery at Maria- Laach. He took 
 part in the Franco- Prussian war as a vokuiteer nurse, and in 
 1872 he was awarded a medal for his heroic services. Never- 
 theless, he was banished with his Order shortly afterwards. In 
 order to continue his studies he then went to England. He was 
 ordained to the priesthood in 1874, and was sent to Tervueren. In 
 Belgium, where ha became associate editor of the famous 
 periodical, Stiinmen aiis Maria- Laach and KatJwUsche Missioncn. 
 
 Here Father Spillmann developed a remarkable and distin- 
 guished literary activity. Stories and sketches for the young, 
 scientific and travel tales compiled from the rich resources of the 
 Maria- Laa-ch correspondence and relations, came from his pen 
 in rapid succession. What a wealth of valuable material is con- 
 tained in the mission paper is shown in the collection of the large 
 monographs " Rund um Afrika," " Durch Asien," " Ueber die 
 Siidsee," "In der neuen Welt," which Father Spillmann compiled 
 from the different volumes. Besides his large works, valuable 
 from an historical and a geographical point of view, Father 
 Spillmann published a series of stories from mission countries 
 under the title of "Aus Fernen Landen." But of more im.portance 
 here are his novels and romances. Of these the first eight volumes 
 appeared under the title of " Wolken und Sonnenschein." now in 
 their fifth edition. "One can hardly say what is most admirable 
 in these novels." writes a critic, "the sympathetic style, the keen 
 delineation of character, or the profound culture of the author." 
 His romance "Die Wunderblume von Woxindon," proves his right 
 to be ranked with the great historical novelists, according to the 
 critic of the London Star. This novel was followed by " Ein 
 Opfer des Beichtgeheimnisses; " "Lucius Flavius," a tale of the 
 last davs of Jerusalem; "Tapfer und Treu," the Memoirs of an 
 Officer of the Swiss Guard, and, "Aus dem Leben einer Konigin." 
 The action of the latter is in the days of the French Terror. 
 All these works have gone through several editions, and several of 
 them have been translated in English and other languages. 
 
 Bishop Keppler of Rottenburg, says of Father Soillmann's 
 contributions to fiction: " Humility, purity, and a high purpose are 
 qual'ties sadly lacking in modern art. Yet these are the most 
 striking characteristics of Spillmann's works, and give them theiv 
 irresistible charm. Spillmann has, moreover, a remarkable com- 
 mand of language, which keeps him always within the lines of 
 pleasing simplicity and attractive fidelity to nature. Such writings 
 are bound to have, not only a great influence upon the formation 
 of a fine literary taste in the reader, but also in the developm.ent 
 of sterling oualities of character and mind."
 
 Xono pbllip, 
 
 A Tale of the Time of Frederick William I. 
 BY JOSEPH SPILLMANN, S.J. 
 
 WHICH TELLS HOW PHILIP OUGHT TO HAVE STAYED AT HOME 
 AND OBEYED HIS FATHER, BUT DID NOT. 
 
 On the border of Prussia and Saxony there is a pleasant valley 
 in which there has been a mill from time immemorial. ,The 
 ancient building, with its curiously carved cornices, its many 
 little windows, its high gables, and its thatched and moss-covered 
 roof, rises in the center of the forest clearing fringed by oak trees 
 centuries old, gnarled and twisted. The mill is called the Valley 
 Mill, and is the very last building on Saxon soil. Not a thousand 
 paces away the mill race crosses the Prussian line. Away back 
 in the gray, forgotten years the same miller family lived in the 
 mill that grinds grain there now. And a more honest family 
 never was among the grain-grinding children of men. 
 
 The most famous miller in the history of the family lived 
 about the middle of the last century. He was popularly known as 
 " Long Philip," and that for the good reason that he stood head 
 and shoulders above any man within miles. 
 
 At that time the lonely valley was even more quiet and shut 
 off than it is now. Great forests stretched in every direction for 
 miles. Only here and there was their dense solitude broken by 
 a peasant's farm, or the seat of some petty nobleman. Once 
 in a while, too, there was a tiny village. The special place of the 
 neighborhood was an old hunting lodge of the Electors of 
 
 195
 
 196 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 Brandenburg. From time to time it was visited by the great folk, 
 wlio amused themselves for a few weeks with the chase and its 
 altenthmt gaieties. But from the time that the Electors of 
 Brandenburg wore the Prussian crown none of them had been at 
 the hunting lodge, and it seemed deserted for good. 
 
 Then all at once the news went the round among the forest- 
 dwellers that King Frederick William I. was coming from Berlin 
 with a great suite to hunt in the ancient forests. This was 
 very exciting news for these people who saw nothing from one 
 end of the year to the other but the still sameness of their woods 
 and fields. The very old people now brimmed with tales of the 
 great times at the ancient chateau at previous hunts. The young 
 fellows were accordingly all eagerness — there would be much to 
 see and perhaps some part to take in the great doings. 
 
 The people who lived in the little hamlet clustering around 
 the castle were frequent visitors to the mill. They had much to 
 tell of the scourings and cleanings and grand preparations going 
 on. The old castellan had even sent to the city for a new livery 
 with silver and gold fringes. One day they brought word that the 
 king and his suite would arrive in two days. Some of the 
 servants and game beaters and drivers had already arrived. 
 
 That same evening Long Philip was asked to come up to the 
 sitting-room for a private talk with his father. The old man was 
 just then suffering from an attack of gouty pains that kept him 
 tied to his armchair. 
 
 " I hear," he said to Philip, " that the Prussian king is coming 
 to the castle to-morrow. All I want to tell you now, Philip, is 
 that during the time that he and his people are in this neighbor- 
 hood you must not leave the house, to .say nothing of crossing 
 the Prussian line. And that you may be the more willing to obey, 
 I will tell you why. You know how the king's mind is set on 
 tall fellows. Every time he sees one he wants to grab him up and 
 put him among his guards. If he, or one of his men, caught sight 
 of you, you would have to go to Berlin just as sureW as the mill 
 wheel is turning outside. Therefore, you will stay here in the 
 house during that time. Do you understand me ? "
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, 8.J. 197 
 
 " But, father, I'm no Prussian. I am a Saxon, and the Prus- 
 sian king has no right to my services at alL It would be too — " 
 
 " Saxon or Prussian, it is all the same to the king. I tell you, 
 you'll stay at home. Frederick William has his own notions as 
 far as tall soldiers are concerned. He keeps up a continual chase 
 after the long ones, and they are not safe from his recruiting 
 officers even in foreign countries. Just lately somebody told me 
 that he had grabbed up some tall fellows in Silesia, in Holland, 
 and in England, and carried them ofE by main force. Even in Rome 
 he had a tall monk taken away by force and sent to Spandau. 
 Therefore, once more, you keep yourself out of sight while he is 
 here, if you do not want to bring great sorrow on yourself, your 
 betrothed, and your old father. Now go and look after your work. 
 I hear a ring below." 
 
 The command was short and to the point, but the obeying of 
 it was unspeakably tedious and trying for Philip. Every day 
 people came into the mill and told wonderful tales of the rich 
 cavaliers and their mighty perukes and braids, of the noble ladies 
 in stiff skirts, of the immense Turks that acted as the king's body- 
 guard, the Hussars, the squires, the hunters, the soldiers, the 
 horses, with silver-mounted harness and ostrich plumes, 
 carriages and so on — all glories of which poor Philip was con- 
 demned to know nothing except by report. And that, too, when 
 he was the only one of the whole neighborhood in this plight. 
 But he dared not try to enjoy the wonderful sight. For the first 
 time in his life he grumbled at the immense stature to which 
 he owed his nickname. Then, too, it was this very stature which 
 it was so tantalizing to conceal here in the mill. He would have 
 liked to go over to the hamlet and show himself to the famous 
 Grenadiers, with their high, bearskin caps, of whom he constantly 
 heard that they were just as tall, perhaps even a little taller than 
 Long Philip. 
 
 But the time of the hunt, as everything else in this world, 
 fortunately drew to a close. " On next Monday," it was said, 
 " the last big chase will take place, and then the king will go back 
 to Berlin in a few days."
 
 198 LOXGf PHILIP. 
 
 " Thanks be to God," sighed Philip wlien he heard this. *' I 
 shall be free to go about again when he is gone." 
 
 Monda}^ came. It was the most beautiful autumn day that 
 could be imagined. The sun soon pierced and dissolved the faint 
 fog that floated over the valley and shone full on the forest 
 glory of color. From the gable Avindow of the mill there was a 
 wonderful outlook. Here Philip stood on Monday morning and 
 looked disconsolately now at the wooded heights that rose on the 
 Prussian side and then again down at the dancing waves of the 
 sparkling mill race that dashed in white foam against the great 
 water-wheel and then caught the glinting sunbeams and fell be- 
 low in rainbow sprays. 
 
 But for all the wondrous charm of nature spread out before 
 him Philip had no eyes. His whole attention was on the distant 
 sounds of the chase. The north wind ])rought him the bay of the 
 pack, the cries of the beaters, the merry sound of the horn and, 
 now and again, the crack of a gun. He listened for a long time, 
 and every moment the desire to have a look at it all became 
 stronger. 
 
 " I shall have to be ashamed of myself all my life," he 
 grumbled angrily, " if I am the only one in the country around 
 who did not sec the king and his guard. And what they say 
 about the tricks and the practices of his recruiting sergeants is 
 probably exaggerated, too. They would not dare to take me off 
 Saxon ground. Moreover, I can arrange it so that they will not 
 have a chance to see me. To be sure," he added after a while, 
 " father forbade me to go, but a man ought not be a child all his 
 life and have every move he makes laid down for him. Am I 
 not twenty-two years old, and am I not going to be married 
 the week after All Saints ? Am I not big enough to be my own 
 master? I am afraid that's what's the matter — I am too big to 
 be my own master." 
 
 The bell, calling him down into the mill, interrupted his 
 soliloquy. There was work enough to do now, and in doing it 
 he almost forgot his annoyance and his temptations. 
 
 After he had been at work for two hours or so, there was a
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, 8.J. 199 
 
 knock at the door. He opened it and saw a little, hunchbacked 
 woman, with a bright, kindly face, who had a pedler's pack in 
 front of her on a little hand wagon. 
 
 " Oh, is it 3'ou, Gertrude ? There are no flour-bags to be 
 mended to-day." 
 
 " Indeed ; so they are not torn yet ? I am glad to hear that, 
 for I sewed them particularly well the last time. Ah ! when I am 
 dead I do not know whom you will get to sew your fine flour- 
 bags right for you — for six miles around there is none that can 
 sew as well as I do. But," she added, winking at him, " I'll teach 
 the innkeeper's daughter Anna to sew just as soon as she is the 
 miller's wife. Ah, you need not blush, Philip. You couldn't 
 have found a better girl. Now, what did I want to say? I did 
 not stop here merely on account of the bags. I want to show you 
 something." With this she opened her box and held out daintily, 
 on her finger tips, a tinsel wreath that glittered and shone in the 
 sunlight. 
 
 "Now, what does that mean ? " asked the miller, who was 
 looking at the wreath in astonishment. " You do not want me to 
 buy that thing, do you ? " 
 
 " Not for yourself," answered Gertrude laughingly, " but for 
 Anna. You see after the hunt this evening the folk around here 
 will be given a feast on the green below the castle. Then- when 
 the king returns later in the evening the justice of the village 
 is going to make a farewell speech to the king. He did not com- 
 pose the speech himself. The preceptor at Aabach composed it 
 for him, and the justice had so much Latin put into it that he 
 could not read it himself. He had to have it read to him, until 
 he knew it by heart. The speech ought to have come off at the 
 arrival of the king in fact, but at that time the justice's new 
 apple-green surtout was not yet ready — " 
 
 " The old fop," said Philip. " I bet he'll stick in the middle 
 of his speech." 
 
 " That's what most of the people think. But he imagines that 
 it will win him special favor with the quality, and thinks that 
 maybe he will be made sheriff. He has taken it into his thick
 
 200 LOXG PHILIP. 
 
 head to speak his piece, and nobody can make him do anything 
 else. And so it has been decided that the prettiest girl in tlie 
 neighborhood, and that is surely your Anna, should present the 
 king with a bouquet of flowers. Of course, she is to be dressed 
 all in white, like an angel, and this golden wreath will be just the 
 thing to wear on her head." 
 
 " That's true," said Philip. " I'll buy the wreath and you can 
 take it right over to the inn." 
 
 "Why don't you take it yourself? I am sure the dear child 
 would be twice as much pleased if you take it to her." 
 
 The miller shoved his cap back and forth on his flour- 
 powdered hair in embarrassment, and finally began to tell Ger- 
 trude the reason for his unpleasant confinement to the mill 
 during the last few weeks. The old woman listened to him with 
 many sighs of sympathy, and broke in at last : 
 
 " dear, dear, and you haven't seen a thing of all the grand 
 show? The king himself, it is true, is really not as fine as the 
 old castellan, who had a beautiful rose-colored surtout made for 
 himself. But the ladies ! I wouldn't have believed that the 
 angels in heaven could be dressed so beautifully. They have hoop- 
 skirts as big round as these millstones, and the silk in their gowns 
 is so stiff that it could stand alone, and is all covered with big 
 Chinese flowers. You have never seen anything like it in all 
 your life." 
 
 " What do I care about the hoopskirts ! ^Miat I want to see 
 is the Turkish guards and the big Grenadiers that the Prussian 
 king has brought together from all over the world. Are they 
 really as big as they say ? Are they as tall as I am, for instance ? " 
 
 " They are terribly big, regular Goliaths, so that it scares a 
 person into a fright just to look at them. There may be some 
 of them that are even taller than you are, although I couldn't 
 be positive as to that. They all wear bearskin caps two feet high, 
 and that makes them look even bigger than they are. You must 
 come over once, at least, and look at them. To-night it will be 
 dark before the king and his people return to the castle. You 
 can stay back among the shadows and look at the show to your
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, S.J. 201 
 
 fill. Nobody will sgg yoii imlops you want him to. At the same 
 time you will have the pleasure of seeing Anna, with the golden 
 wreath in her hair, handing the bouquet to the king." 
 
 Philip had dallied too long with the temptation not to yield 
 to it. The old woman got her price for the tinsel wreath, and a 
 message to Anna that Philip would come over in the evening and 
 bring her something pretty. Then he carried the wreath, care- 
 fully done up in its pasteboard box, to his own room, while 
 Gertrude went her way toward the Prussian line, pleased with her 
 bargain. 
 
 After a little while Philip's father came hobbling into the 
 mill leaning on his cane. He stood a while watching his sturdy 
 son, who sifted and lifted and poured with a vigor and handiness 
 that did one good just to see. The old man went the round, 
 watching things here and there, and finally said : " It is all well, 
 very good except the bran. It looks as if the stones needed 
 smoothing." 
 
 " Yes, father," said Philip, " I shall sharpen them to-morrow." 
 
 " Then you'll have to grind all night, for some of this flour is 
 wanted day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, well, it might be a day late without much harm. But 
 never mind, it shall all be ready in good season." 
 
 " You are a little put out because of being shut up so long, 
 and I don't blame you. And, while I happen to think of it, hitch 
 up the little wagon for me after supper. I would like to go over 
 myself and have a look at the king of the Prussians. I am sorry 
 that you have to stay at home, but it can't be helped. I shall take 
 old Martha with me, too. You are man enough to watch the mill 
 alone for one night. Perhaps I'll stay at the inn, and perhaps I'll 
 come back." 
 
 With these words the old man left his son. He had seen well 
 enough how eager the young fellow was to go. But leaving him 
 alone thus, he wanted to make it a matter of honor and necessity 
 for Philip to stay at the mill. Indeed, if Philip had not bought 
 the wreath for Anna, his father's tactics would have been suc- 
 cessful. Now, however, he felt that he had to go.
 
 202 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 " Nobody will carry off the building in the two hours of my 
 absence/"' he said angrily, "and long before father gets back, I'll 
 be here and have the mill a-going." 
 
 II. 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO PHILIP AT THE FESTIVAL. 
 
 Slowly the sun went down, its last rays lingering on the 
 turrets and windows of the royal chateau, which rose majestically 
 from the top of a rolling hill. At its foot stretched a wide valley 
 of plowed land and meadows, framed by a chain of densely wooded 
 hills. 
 
 On this evening castle and hamlet were gay with holiday 
 dress. From the castle turrets floated flags and pennants in 
 the mild evening air. On the open space at the foot of the 
 castle hill the village people had built a triumphal arch. A 
 wide circle around it was fenced off by pine branches stuck into 
 the ground. Inside of this circle the address to the king was to 
 be made. 
 
 On the green outside several dozens of long tables were set for 
 the entertainment of the peasants, who had helped at the hunt. 
 The women were naturally there, too, in their wide-sleeved, full- 
 skirted holiday best, and the usually quiet place below the castle 
 presented a picturesque and animated scene. The justice ap- 
 peared about this time in full state dress. The long tails of his new 
 apple-green coat almost dragged on the ground, and the im- 
 mense wig above the stern-looking forehead gave him a dis- 
 tinguished look — at least so the justice thought. But the villagers 
 could hardly keep from laugbing. Many a joke flew the round 
 behind his back, which would have given him little pleasure 
 could he have heard it. Conscious of his importance, however, 
 he passed the peasants without a word, or look, of greeting, and 
 made his way straight to the castellan, whom he saluted with a 
 scraping bow. 
 
 " Ah, it is the justice," said the castellan. " Does he know his 
 speech ? Will he not make a break before his Majesty ? "
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, 8 J. 203 
 
 "I hope not. It has Ijcon "well mnrmurized." He meant 
 " memorized." " And with eyes shut, so that the august sight 
 of the king may not he too confusing, it will go ' par hleu/ as 
 Colonel Eoederer is wont to say." 
 
 Thus spoke the justice, hut down in his heart he was by no 
 means as sure of himself as he pretended to be. The speech, which 
 he carried neatly rolled up in his right hand, seemed a great 
 weight. He was even then beginning to be conscious of the ex- 
 citement that precedes great moments. In his nervousness he 
 found a thousand and one things to arrange and to order. He 
 ran back and forth so that the heavy braid of his wig jumped 
 up and down on his back. Although the king was not expected 
 until after dark, he insisted that the villagers line up along the 
 pine hedge. Suddenly it struck him that the ceremony of hand- 
 ing the ^bouquet to the king should be rehearsed once more. 
 When he discovered that the innkeeper's daughter was not even 
 at the public meeting-place as yet, he almost lost his mind. 
 
 At once he sent a messenger in hot haste to the inn, a quarter 
 of a mile away, to get the girl. She, for her part, would have been 
 there long since, but she was still waiting for Philip. Just as she 
 began to feel that she could not possibly wait any longer, after 
 the urgings of the justice's messenger, Philip came. 
 
 " Oh, it is you at last ? Your father is in the big room and 
 said you were not to come. If the Prussians should see you, it 
 would be all over with you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, but they will not see me. Keep quiet, so that 
 father will not know that I am here. He would be angry if he 
 knew it." 
 
 " He told you not to come, did he ? If I knew positively 
 that that were so, I wouldn't say another word to you to-day." 
 
 Philip looked at his betrothed in utter surprise, but after a 
 moment it seemed to him he saw a hint of the tease in the gleam 
 of her bright eyes. " Well, don't be angry anyway. It was on your 
 account that I came." 
 
 "Very well, then, you can go home again. You have seen 
 me."
 
 204 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 " But I must see you Avlicn j'ou present the bouquet to the 
 king, and the Turkish guard and the big Grenadiers may be there, 
 too." 
 
 " Aha, that's it. That is what brings you over here. You 
 want to go up and stand beside the bearskin caps and show that 
 you are a half-inch taller than any of them, even if you make 
 yourself and your old father and me unhappy by doing so." 
 
 " Don't be childish, Anna. I shall not stand in the front rows. 
 Just see what I have brought you. You shall be as fine as any 
 of the Berlin ladies to-night. See how it sparkles and shines," 
 said Philip, holding up the tinsel Avrcath. 
 
 " And you bought that for me, Philip ? " cried the girl. " You 
 are a dear, good fellow, anyway ! But I beg you to go home right 
 away. You can not imagine w'hat agony I shall be in this 
 evening if I know that you are near the Prussian soldiers." 
 
 Then she called her mother to look at the lovely wreath, and 
 Philip said good-by. Anna called after him, " Now, you'll surely 
 go home, Philip ? " 
 
 " To be sure, this very evening." 
 
 " Xo ; at once." 
 
 " Don't worry, Anna — not a soul shall see me." 
 
 Then he slipped out through the back door, so his father 
 should not notice him. 
 
 A few minutes later the whole party at the Inn broke up for 
 the scene of the festivities. The old miller in his light wagon 
 drove a little way up the hill and took position there so that he 
 could see what was going on in comfort. 
 
 Night had come, but the immense bonfires threw a red 
 glare against the old castle and over the bright groups. Now, 
 several carts loaded with game drove up — deer, wdth splendid 
 antlers, hares and wild pigs. But the most wonderful, and at 
 the same time fearsome, sight was that of an immense boar on a 
 cart by itself and covered, after the fashion of the chase, with 
 green pine branches. 
 
 There was no holding the people. They all ran pcllmell 
 to see the game. Not until the advance guard of the king galloped
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, S.J. 205 
 
 up would the}' go back to tlioir places. TliG rat-tat-tat of drums 
 sounded from the castle, and the company of Turkish body- 
 guards, which the king had brought along, marched down, fol- 
 lowed by the Grenadierf!, gold-fringed attendants, jockeys and so 
 on, and formed a cordon to keep back the crowd. 
 
 This was the first time the peasants had had a chance to see 
 these unaccustomed figures in such numbers and at such short 
 range, and they had not yet gotten over their astonishment when 
 the sound of horns came from the forest. " They're coming ! 
 they're coming ! " was the cry, and all heads turned toward the 
 driveway. Soon there was the gleam of torches through the 
 trees, and in a few minutes some of the advance riders were seen 
 at the edge of the forest. Foremost came a number of hunters, 
 merrily blowing their horns. After them, drawn by magnificent 
 horses, came coaches with the court ladies; then came the 
 king, surrounded by torch-bearers, and followed by gentlemen of 
 the court. The end of the train was made up by hunters. Hus- 
 sars, jockeys, and servants, all clothed in brilliant colors, and 
 glittering with silver and gold ornamentations. 
 
 Straight across the meadow came the train toward the 
 triumphal arch, under which the justice and the white-robed 
 5^oung girls stood. The cold sweat was on the poor man's 
 forehead, as he saw the magnificent people before whom he was 
 to speak draw so near. 
 
 The castellan had sent word to the king that the people of 
 the country district wished to greet him, and, being in very good 
 humor, he had given his consent to listen to the justice's speech. 
 "But," he added, warningly, "be sure to tell him to cut it 
 short." 
 
 So the coaches stood still and the attendants formed a pro- 
 tecting circle around the king and the ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 With solemn step and incessant bows and clearings of the 
 throat the justice approached the king, followed by the girls in 
 white. All the while the justice repeated, to the right and to 
 the left, in a stage whisper. " Xow watch. "When I bow you 
 must all bow, and when I call out ' Hoch ! ' you must all cheer."
 
 206 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 The justice had by this time come near to the king. Holding 
 his cocked hat in one hand and his speech in the other, instead 
 of standing a little to one side, he stopped directly in front of the 
 horses. He made one more profound bow, which caused his wig to 
 slip well into his eyes, and was about to begin when the king 
 stopped him. " Does he want to address the horse ? Can he not 
 come to our right side if his address is meant for us?" 
 
 After these words from royalty it did not need the suppressed 
 titter of the bystanders to rob the poor justice of what little self- 
 possession was left. Xevertheless, he made another most profound 
 bow directly in front of the horse, which reared as the uptilting 
 braid struck its sensitive nostrils. Then he stepped to the side 
 of the king — but to the left side. 
 
 " Is that our right side ? " asked the king laughingly. 
 " Doesn't the man know which is right and which is left, and he 
 justice here in this village?" 
 
 The poor justice went over to the right side and tried to talk 
 three times, and three times he stuck at the very first sentence. It 
 did not help the matter to have the king tell him to read the speech 
 from the paper. The poor justice could not read it. The pause 
 was becoming more and more painful. The king was beginning 
 to look anno3'ed, and might have said something after his rather 
 rough manner that would not have been pleasant for the justice — 
 when the innkeeper, who was standing near, stepped up, and in 
 •a few words expressed the greeting of the people, and ended in a 
 cheer, which the peasants joined until the hills echoed and re- 
 echoed with their voices. 
 
 The justice had had several charges of powder placed in the 
 underbrush at the side of the castle hill, and had ordered his 
 servant to touch them off when he heard the people cheer. It 
 was right near this place that the old miller had stopped his light 
 wagon. In some unpardonable way, no one had told the old man 
 of the danger of his choice of place. His horse was even then 
 restless at the glare and cheers and the blowing of horns and sound 
 of the drums. The old man had had to ask a lad to hold its head 
 The cheers were hardly over when the shots rang out, and the
 
 JOSEPH 8PILLMANN, 8. J. 5iU7 
 
 horse, blinded by the flash and frightened by the roar, phmged, 
 reared up until the shafts snapped, and broke away, running 
 straight into the crowded knot of humanity below the foot of the 
 hill. The screaming people dodged the animal, which was making 
 straight for the place where Anna was just offering the king the 
 bouquet. The king's horse plunged and reared, and the frightened 
 animals threatened a terrible accident if they were not stopped be- 
 fore they dashed in among the coaches. 
 
 But at this critical moment a gigantic form rushed between 
 the two animals and caught them simultaneously by the bits, and 
 with iron strength pulled them steady and held them there; a 
 second later the jockeys had surrounded the king and his fractious 
 horse. The unknown relinquished its bit, and started to lead away 
 the other horse. But the king called after him, " Stop ! " 
 
 The unknown was none other than Long Philip. In spite 
 of the entreaties of his affianced, he had hung around the scene, 
 watching the king and his suite, and the gigantic Grenadiers. 
 He was just about to steal away, safe and unnoticed, when his 
 father's horse ran away and made straight for the king and Anna. 
 Then all discretion left him. Shoving aside the crowding people 
 with his strong arms, he sprang forward just in time to prevent 
 a terrible accident. That he had shown his stature and immense 
 strength, to say nothing of his courage, to the king in the best 
 possible light, only occurred to him when he heard the command- 
 ing " Stop ! " 
 
 Philip stopped and turned mechanically toward the king. 
 He hardly heard the frightened cry of his bride-to-be, nor could 
 he tell later who had taken the horse, so entirely was he filled 
 with the one thought : "Now I am lost ! " 
 
 " Let him come nearer," the king called out to him. " I 
 must have a little better look at him. What a fine fellow ! 
 Sergeant Langbein, stand up beside this man. Put the bear- 
 skin cap on him! Fine, splendid. Colonel Eoederer, what do 
 you think of this new man ? " 
 
 The officer addressed rode up and looked at Long Philip with 
 the air of a judge. Then he answered : " At your service, your
 
 208 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 Majesty, the fellow is a full half-inch taller than Sergeant Lang- 
 bcin, who is, as is well known, the tallest man in the army. By 
 my honor, it would be the greatest sin man could commit if he 
 were not to be a Grenadier." 
 
 " It would be unpardonable," the king agreed. Then he asked 
 the unhappy Philip in his pleasantest manner: "What is your 
 name ? " 
 
 " Philip Moosbach, your Majesty." 
 
 " What are you ? " 
 
 " A miller." 
 
 " Now, hear me, Philip Moosbach. There are other people 
 in plenty who can swallow flour dust. You must be one of my 
 Grenadiers, as surely as my name is Frederick William." 
 
 " But I do not want to be a soldier." 
 
 " Oh, you do not want to be a soldier ! Do you think you will 
 be asked what you want, when it is so plain that the Lord has 
 meant you to be a Grenadier ? " 
 
 " But I am not a Prussian, I am a Saxon." 
 
 " As if there were any difficulty in that ! People from every 
 land are enlisted in our army. Just remember that, now that we 
 know where you are, we will know how to get you, too, even if 
 you were to go as far as Hungary. But we would like it much 
 better, if you were to let yourself be enlisted in good will. Here 
 is a louis d'or which you may take as a reward for your courage 
 and as a sign of our good will. Corporal Kluge, see that this 
 man is enlisted before we leave. He must go to Berlin with us.*' 
 
 ,The king touched his horse lightly and rode up the castle 
 hill, followed by the renewed cheers of the people. The last torch- 
 bearer disappeared behind the castle gate and the sightseers 
 melted away outside. Corporal Kluge, a big, angular fellow, with 
 great mustachios and piercing eyes, went up to Philip, and several 
 other soldiers joined them at a sign from the corporal. Among 
 them Pliilip got back his wits. He saw that there was nothing 
 more to be done by force. So he made up his mind to put a 
 pleasant face on the matter, and keep his eyes open in the mean- 
 time.
 
 JOSEPH 8PILLMANN, 8. J. ii09 
 
 " If it must be," he said to the soldiers, " let us go and drink 
 the king's health for his louis d'or." 
 
 The Grenadiers did not have to be asked twice. Arm in arm 
 with Long Philip, they started off, telling him the while of the 
 pleasures of soldier life in Spandau. 
 
 III. 
 
 TRICK AND COUNTER TRICK. A STRANGE ADVENTURE, IN WHICH 
 LONG THILIP HAS THE PART OF LOOKER ON, AND HOW THE 
 STORY ENDED AT LAST. 
 
 Until late at night the big room of the inn was filled with 
 guests, who ate and drank, and talked. At a separate table sat 
 Philip with the king's soldiers. Anna, who passed back and forth, 
 sometimes helping to serve the guests, and whose eyes were red 
 with weeping, could not understand how her unfortunate lover 
 could seem so jolly. But when she caught a meaning look from 
 his eyes, she began to think he had some plan. Then she noticed 
 that he filled the soldiers' glasses, told them stories, urged them 
 to drink, and drank nothing himself. This made the girl feel a 
 little less anxious. 
 
 At the head of the big table sat the innkeeper himself. He 
 had saved the honor of the village on this evening, and the vil- 
 lagers were singing his praises accordingly, the while they berated 
 the justice for his break. Over and over again, the guests returned 
 to this subject, and one of them, always emphatic and loud- 
 mouthed, struck the table with his fist and said, loud enough for 
 all to hear : 
 
 " This is what I say, and you can tell any one who wants to 
 listen, that I said so, this evening's performance may cost some 
 one (I don't want to mention any names) his position, office, 
 and regard, in spite of a new wig and a green coat. And I know, 
 too, who will take his place, and he will be an honor to the whole 
 parish. We have heard who can make a speech before the king, 
 without having it written out by somebody else. I am no prophet, 
 but things like that are plain as the nose on one's face."
 
 310 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 During this speech the unhappy justice appeared in the door- 
 way behind tlie speaker and licard what was being said of liim. 
 He had come to take the innkeeper to task for mixing in without 
 being asked to do so. In his vanity he imagined tliat he would 
 have been able to finish his speech any way, had he not been 
 supplanted, and therefore he felt that he had been disgraced 
 before his Majesty and his suite by the innkeeper. What he 
 had just heard showed him, however, how inopportune was the 
 time for his charge. Yellow with anger, he screamed into the 
 room : " I'll remember that speech of yours. Hill Farmer — and 
 yours, too, innkeeper. I am still the justice, and will stay the 
 justice in spite of you.'" With that he went out and banged the 
 door, followed by roars of laughter. 
 
 But the innkeeper could not feel really happy on this evening, 
 pleasant as the praises of his neighbors were to him. He kept 
 looking over at the table at which his prospective son-in-law 
 was seated. Now the lad caught his eye and called out : " Say, 
 a word with you, innkeeper." 
 
 The innkeeper rose and left the room with Philip. They 
 were scarcely outside the door when the corporal rose to go after 
 them. Philip had but time to whisper a few words when the 
 corporal was beside him again. So Philip asked aloud about his 
 father, and whether he had been hurt, and added with a sigh: 
 " Tell my father that it will be some time before I can come back 
 to the Valley Mill. Do you know my good friend and comrade 
 here — Corporal Kluge ? " he asked the innkeeper then. " There's 
 not a better inn than this from here to Berlin, now, on your honor, 
 is there, Corporal ? Let us go back and cheer up the others, and 
 then I'm with you. Long live the king." 
 
 They went back into the room and Philip told more stories 
 and filled the soldiers' glasses again. Midnight was past when the 
 Grenadiers and their new recruit went singing and shouting 
 along the forest-path toward the quarters. They had turned in 
 the wrong direction, when they got into the shadow of the trees, 
 but even the corporal, sleepy and full of confidence in his new 
 man, did not notice anything amiss. ISTot until they came upon
 
 JOSEPH 8PILLMANN, S.J. 211 
 
 a little forest-stream, did lie grow dubious and protest that he had 
 never seen it before. But Philip managed to lull his suspieions. 
 " Don't you suppose that I know the country around here ? Just 
 go on. We must get over." 
 
 " The miserable bit of a plank hasn't even a handrail," the 
 first soldier grumbled. 
 
 " Oh, what's that ?" said Philip. " Surely an honest Grenadier 
 does not mind a little thing like that." 
 
 The two Grenadiers thus urged tried their weight on the 
 plank and Philip followed. Whether it was that they were not in 
 a condition to walk straight, or that Philip helped them along 
 with a push, at any rate, the one in the back stumbled against the 
 one in front and both of them went over into the water, which, 
 by the way, was not deep enough to be dangerous to such tall 
 fellows. 
 
 " There they go. Now we're in a pickle," said Long Philip. 
 " Corporal, do you stay over there, and I'll go onto the other side, 
 so that we can the better help them get to dry land." 
 
 But hardly had Philip reached the further side when he seized 
 the plank and, with a great wrench, tore it loose from its pro- 
 tecting poles and threw it down toward the two Grenadiers, who 
 were splashing around in the water, their teeth chattering from 
 the cold. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " called out the corporal. 
 " How do you expect to get back ? " 
 
 " I don't expect to go back," laughed Long Philip. " The creek 
 is the border line. I am on Saxon ground here, and so, good-by. 
 Eeport to your Frederick William that the long lad has long 
 legs." 
 
 There was despair and rage on the other side, but Philip 
 did not need to fear pursuit. It took some time to get the Grena- 
 diers out, and then they had to fish out their bearskin caps. The 
 cold plunge had sobered them up, and they could see very well 
 how useless it was for them to try to follow Philip in the forest- 
 wilderness and darkness. So they concluded to return, as best 
 they could, heavy-hearted at the thought of what the king would
 
 212 LO:SG PHILIP. 
 
 say when he found how cleverly the coveted prize had escaped 
 them. 
 
 The return road was really not very easy to find, riiilip had 
 taken them straight through the thickest forest. The sun was 
 high before they came across a poor woman gathering firewood, 
 and got their bearings from her. 
 
 Colonel Eoederer was properly frightened when he heard their 
 report. 
 
 " Why," he said, " the king talked of nothing else all evening. 
 The new recruit seemed to give him more pleasure than the entire 
 hunt. The man will have to be here by to-morrow morning, or 
 there'll be trouble." 
 
 Corporal Kluge did not need any such spur to make him 
 eager to find Philip again. He knew the king and his passion 
 too well. Then, too, he wanted revenge for the trick played on 
 him. He walked along the lonely road that passed back of the 
 village, thinking and planning, when he suddenly saw the Justice. 
 That was it — the justice must help him. He saluted him pleas- 
 antly and began talking to him. 
 
 " On my honor," he said, " I am sorry fOr you. That was a 
 great speech you began yesterday. It was easy to be seen that it 
 was fine, but the stupid villagers would confuse any one." 
 
 " And so your worship noticed that too ? That pleases me 
 very much. The awe of the king and then those restless vil- 
 lagers — " 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure ; but, unfortunately, his Majesty did 
 not observe the causes, and made some most ungracious remarks 
 about you last evening. It might be, indeed, that the innkeeper, 
 whose speech, just between us, was really very poor, not to be com- 
 pared with yours, may yet be your successor." 
 
 " Has that been said? Oh, I believe it would kill me." 
 
 " Oh, I am just speaking of possibilities. It Avould be a good 
 thing for you if you could show 5'our devotion in some notable 
 way to the king. There is the very best chance to do that now. 
 You know Long Philip, don't you ? " 
 
 " To be sure. He's been an annoyance to me this many a
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, 8 J. 213 
 
 year, and particularly now, that he is going to marry the inn- 
 keepers daughter." 
 
 " Well, you have the very best possible chance not only to get 
 even with him, but to win the king's favor at the same time. The 
 fellow got away from us, and if you can find where he is hiding 
 this very day, I'll promise to put in a good word for you with the 
 king." 
 
 The justice was delighted. He did not think the fellow could 
 have gone very far, and the two conspirators agreed to meet 
 toward evening in a deserted charcoal hut. The justice carefully 
 described its location, so that the corporal could make no mis- 
 take about it. Then they parted. 
 
 They did not suspect that their talk had been overheard by 
 old Gertrude, who, tired from her morning's journey, was taking 
 a bit of a rest in the sheltering shade of a dense hedge. 
 
 The affair of the previous evening had almost made the poor 
 old woman ill, she had such scruples about her urging of Philip 
 to go to the village. When she heard the men talking, it seemed 
 that Providence was giving it into her hand to make good her 
 mistake. After they went away she wondered what she ought to 
 do. First she thought to go to the mill, then to the innkeeper, 
 but, at last, she concluded that it would be best to go to the hut 
 and hide there until she heard the outcome of the justice's quest. 
 
 In the mean time the justice was on the still hunt. He went 
 to the mill first. After a little talk with the loquacious old 
 Martha he had his suspicions confirmed. Philip was with his 
 cousin Martin on the Pine Farm. The Pine Farm was a good 
 two hours' travel into Saxon country, isolated in the midst of a 
 dense forest. Years passed sometimes before a stranger drifted into 
 the lonely place. Some distance from the farm there was a pasture 
 clearing belonging to it. In this clearing the justice suddenly ap- 
 peared, to the astonishment of Long Philip, who was peacefully 
 herding the sheep in place of the regular shepherd, indisposed 
 that day. But he was so lonesome and depressed by the events 
 of the day before, and the prospect of having to hide for years to 
 come, that he was really glad to see the justice, for whom he
 
 214 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 ordinarily had little love. The justice greeted him pleasantly, 
 and began talking. Philip told him artlessly how it was that he 
 iiappened to be there, for he had no thought that this man would 
 betray one of his own neighborhood. 
 
 The justice listened, and then, saying that he had to travel on, 
 so as to reach a distant farm before night, left him. 
 
 As he was leaving he asked carelessly : 
 
 " You go back to the Pine Farm at night, do you not ? " 
 
 " No ; I stay here." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that. It will be a wet, unpleasant night." 
 
 " I don't mind that. I'll crawl into my barrow up there under 
 the big pine tree, and sleep very well. Especially since I did not 
 close an eye last night. The dog may watch the sheep." 
 
 Then the men said good-by to each other and parted. As soon 
 as the justice came to the next turn in the road, he changed his 
 direction and hurried back as fast as possible by by-paths to the 
 cliarcoal hut. " Victory ! " he laughed, full of assurance, " we'll 
 catch the long lad and win the favor of the king again." 
 
 Philip, in the mean time, saw the loneliest, dreariest day of 
 his life draw to a close. It was still early when he drove the 
 sheep into the corral, tied the dog to the lower end of the fence, 
 and went up to a barrow standing on a two-wheeled frame, on 
 which he was to sleep. The rain the justice had promised began 
 to fall, but Philip was long since in his box, well-bedded on fresh 
 beech nut leaves and wrapped in a woolen blanket. 
 
 Philip had no idea how long he might have been asleep, when 
 the wild barking of the dog waked him suddenly. At first he did 
 not realize where he was. He wanted to get up, but a bump 
 against the low roof of the barrow brought him to his senses. 
 Then he heard the rustling of something moving in the brush, 
 and a moment later there was a knock on his sleeping-box, and a 
 woman's voice asked : " Are you there. Miller ? " 
 
 " To be sure ; but what do you want of me in the middle of the 
 night, and who are you ? " 
 
 "I am old Gertrude, the pedler. Dear heaven, wliat things 
 are happening, and how will they end ? Just let me get my breath.
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, 8.J. 215 
 
 I ran all the way from the charcoal hut in the redwood, nntil I 
 came to the hollow below here. There I stumbled and hurt my 
 foot, so that I thought I would never get up the hill." 
 
 " But what is the matter ? Were robbers after you ? Shall I 
 light the lantern ? " 
 
 " No, no ; no light, whatever comes. The justice and the 
 Prussian soldiers are following right after me." 
 
 " Oho ! " said Philip, who began to see daylight. In a moment 
 he was out of the barrow. " And so you came all this way to warn 
 me in time. I'll remember that as long as I live." 
 
 " Wasn't it my duty? If it hadn't been for me and the gilded 
 wreath you wouldn't have had all this trouble. They will be 
 here about three o'clock, and I think that it is past one now." 
 
 Then she began to tell him the plan she had overheard. She 
 was not a little surprised that the lad seemed to think it all a 
 huge joke. 
 
 " They expect to find me and take me to the king," he laughed 
 out aloud. 
 
 " Just as I said ; and what's more they expect to make a great 
 joke out of it. They intend to nail up the door of your sleeping- 
 box and haul you and the barrow into the courtyard." 
 
 " Fine, fine," said Philip. " And, to tell the truth, they 
 almost succeeded. But we'll see. He who laughs last, laughs best. 
 We'll fix them. The corporal will have a bilious fever, and that 
 old beau of a justice, who wants to curry favor with the king by 
 betraying an honest lad, may yet find himself gathering thistles 
 instead of laurels." 
 
 " But what do you intend to do ? You ought to get away as 
 fast as possible, I should think." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I shall see the beginning of the farce my- 
 self, and some time you can tell me the wind up. The matter is 
 very simple. You get into the box instead of me, and let yourself 
 be hauled to the castle. As your foot is lame, it would be hard for 
 you to walk back any way. I am going to climb up into the pine- 
 tree." 
 
 " But what are you thinking of, Philip ? Do you mean that I
 
 216 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 should creep out of the barrow before the king and all the 
 qualit}^, and in those clothes? Why, they would hang me." 
 
 " They will not dare touch a hair of your head. You do not 
 need to tell them that you warned me. What's more, you'll see 
 the best joke that could be imagined. I'd give ten dollars to see 
 the faces of the justice and the corporal." 
 
 " But they will find out the trick sooner — " 
 
 " Then they will let you go sooner, and you have lost nothing." 
 
 Gertrude consented at last, and got into the barrow, while 
 Philip leaned against the pine tree, ready to climb into it at the 
 first sound from the forest road. 
 
 Everything was quiet again on the pasture. The rain had 
 stopped, but a haze hung over the trees through which the moon- 
 light came, but dimly. In the narrow forest roads it must have 
 been very dark, though in the open one could vaguely distinguish 
 outlines. Time dragged, and Philip began to fear that the 
 soldiers were not coming at all, and so he would miss his joke. 
 Then the dog began to bark. The next moment Philip was 
 climbing into the pine tree. He caught the fleeting gleam of a 
 lantern between the trees. Presently he heard careful movements 
 in the underbrush. The dog barked much more furiously than 
 he had before, and dragged at his chain. Directly beneath the 
 tree Philip heard the voice of the corporal : 
 
 " That dog will spoil the whole game, if we don't hurry. 
 Philip'll wake up, and I have no desire to become acquainted with 
 his fists." 
 
 A second later he heard them bang the door of the barrow shut 
 and bolt it, and then he heard them all laugh, as if at a good 
 joke. And for the moment he could hardly keep from laughing 
 himself. 
 
 " So there, my pretty bird, you are safe," said the corporal. 
 " Just knock away. The door will not be opened until we reach 
 the courtyard. He will have time to be sorry for some of his 
 tricks for a while. Just let him keep still in there. In Spandau 
 he will be taught how to stand guard better than he did up here. 
 Forward, now."
 
 JOSEPH SPILLMANN, S.J. 217 
 
 And the barrow rolled and bumped down the pasture. In the 
 ravine below a horse was hitched to it. The justice, as the native, 
 climbed up on the front end to drive; behind him were the cor- 
 poral and the two Grenadiers, and away thumped the unusual 
 vehicle toward the Prussian line. 
 
 Philip could not help wishing that he could see the final 
 scene in the courtyard, but this time he had less difficulty in con- 
 quering his curiosity than he had the night before. At the break 
 of day he drove the herd up to the Pine Farm, and explained to 
 his cousin Martin why he thought it best to leave the country for 
 a while. 
 
 Almost at the very same time that Philip was saying farewell 
 to his relatives at the lonely farm, the shepherd's barrow and its 
 contents and escort reached the village. At the foot of the castle 
 hill there was a halt. The corporal went up and reported his de- 
 lightful success to the colonel. The colonel hastened to announce 
 the glorious affair to his Majesty. Frederick William was at 
 breakfast with several ladies and gentlemen and heard the jolly 
 tale with immense delight. 
 
 "Let him have the barrow brought beneath our window at 
 once," commanded the king. " And let the guard turn out. We 
 want to see this spectacle for ourselves. And let him take note — 
 Corporal Kluge will be promoted, and the justice — who, though 
 he seems to be a poor orator, yet has some wit, we shall reward 
 personally." 
 
 A few minutes later the barrow rolled up under the window 
 and stopped there, together with the justice and the soldiers. 
 Every eye was fixed on the low door. But when, instead of the 
 gigantic form of the miller, poor, hunchbacked old Gertrude crept 
 out and courtesied to the king, the king's window was thrown shut 
 so hard that the panes flew out. 
 
 What followed can easily be imagined. Instead of promotion, 
 there was punishment and dismissal. The following morning the 
 king and his suite returned to Berlin. He never came to the 
 chateau near the border of Saxony again. The justice had to 
 leave the neighborhood, because the peasants gave him no peace
 
 218 LONG PHILIP. 
 
 after his double-dealing was known. The innkeeper succeeded, 
 indeed, to his office. In the mean time, Long Philip wandered 
 through South Germany as a journeyman miller. When, after a 
 year, the news that Frederick William I., the Great Elector, was 
 dead, and that his son and heir did not inherit his father's mania 
 for tall soldiers, Philip went back to the Valley Mill. Not long 
 after there was a merry wedding there. 
 
 The great tables were spread under the ancient oaks, and the 
 gaiety was at its highest, when a strange vehicle, covered with 
 green wreaths and mounted by lads dressed like Prussian Grena- 
 diers with immense bearskin caps, was seen to approach from the 
 woods. It was the famous barrow, and the laughter was unending 
 when the door opened and old Gertrude crept out — the tinsel 
 wreath on her head. 
 
 " Yes, neighbors," said the bridegroom, when the laughter died 
 down ; " it was a merry prank and, fortunately, had a good end- 
 ing. But for a time it looked bad, and it cost me a year away 
 from home. That is what I got for knowing better than my 
 father. But now everything is well. It was a good lesson for me." 
 
 The barrow remained at the Valley Mill as a family treasure. 
 The great-grandchildren of Philip still showed it to their chil- 
 dren, and it may be there yet.
 
 »t.<s%Qri: 
 
 
 HEINRICH HANSJAKOB. 
 
 Heinrich Hansjakob was born August 19, 1837, in Haslach, 
 in the Kinzig Valley, Grand Duchy of Baden. His father was a 
 baker and restaurant keeper. His ancestors belonged to the 
 hardy Black Forest peasant and bourgeoise type, and he has 
 preserved towards the people of his land and blood the most 
 devoted loyalty and affection. He has put the types of his 
 native town into a number of wonderfully told stories, all the more 
 effective because of the deep sympathy of the writer with his
 
 characters. He shares, with Alban Stolz, the merit of being the 
 best of the Catholic writers of the time who portray the Hfe of 
 the people. His merits as a writer of the people has been 
 recognized in Protestant circles as well as among Catholics, and 
 he has been frequently likened to Fritz Reutsr on account of his 
 unfailing humor and his fidelity to nature. 
 
 He was educated at Freiburg in Breisgau and was ordained to 
 the priesthood in 1863. He took the examination for the degree 
 of philosophy the same year. Then he tJUght for six years, part 
 of the time in Waldshut, but was dismissed from the State service 
 in 1869 and placed under arrest on account of his political 
 attitude. From 1869 to 1884 he was the parish priest in the 
 little village of Hagnau on Lake Constance. Since 1884 he has 
 had a parish in Freiburg, where he is beloved by the people, and 
 honored by the students of the University in which he was once 
 enrolled. 
 
 Eight volumes of his selected writings have appeared. The 
 first two present reminiscences of his youth and student days — 
 " Diirre Blatter," " Schneeballen," and "Wilde Kirschen," and 
 the other three are tales of the Black Forest. 
 
 An illustrated edition of the novel " Der Vogt auf M'uhlstein" 
 was very successful. Moreover he has published a series of stories 
 and diaries: "Auf der Festung," " Im Gefangniss," "Aus Kranken 
 Tagen," " Im Paradies," " Bauernblut," " Der Leutnant von Hasle," 
 "Der Steinerne Mann vcn Hasle," "Waldleute," " Erinnerung 
 einer alten Schwarzwalderin,'' etc. ; besides these a great number 
 of short stories have also proceeded from his pen. These are the 
 fruits of his general literary labors. His spiritual activity has 
 expressed itself in a series of Lenten sermons much appreciated.
 
 fvom tbe Stor^ of an Tllnbappi? Xtte. 
 
 BY H. HANSJAKOB. 
 
 It has been my custom, these many years, to spend my vaca- 
 tions in the suburbs of the city of Freiburg. I have secured for 
 myself a quiet hermitage in what was at one time a Carthusian 
 monastery, but is now the municipal poorhouse. It stands in 
 the woods near the city, and has a most inspiring outlook over the 
 pine-bordered valley of the Dreisam River. Here I rest, and 
 think, and dream. 
 
 When the days are fine I leave my refuge and wander slowly 
 down into the green valley along the creek and through the 
 meadow. Then, after a while I return to my cell, filled with a 
 quiet happiness. 
 
 Thus it happened one warm afternoon in the spring of the 
 year 1898. The sun smiled on hill and dale, the thrushes sang 
 jubilantly in the pine trees, the bees hummed along the blossom- 
 ing bushes beside the creek, and, on the meadows, the spring blos- 
 soms raised their faces to the vivifying light. 
 
 Between the river and the creek I sat down, beside a sluice 
 which regulated the irrigation of the meadow. In front of me, 
 in the dry ditch, there lay an old, worn birch broom. 
 
 Scarcely had the broom noticed that I looked at it for several 
 moments, when it seemed to me as if it began to address my con- 
 sciousness thus : 
 
 You old fellow, you have come here just at the right time. I 
 have seen you pass often and would have liked to talk to you. I 
 am one of the beings whom the civilization of mankind has made 
 unhappy, too, — one of its very first victims. Tlierefore let me tell 
 
 221
 
 222 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 you the tale of the life of one of these miserable ones, then release 
 me and tell your fellow men how even a broom must suffer for 
 their comfort and selfishness. 
 
 I have been lying here since late in the fall, carried to this 
 spot by the water, and then left by it. In all my life no one 
 even looked at me pityingly. You are the first person who ever 
 turned to me with kindly eyes. Therefore I shall pour out all 
 my woe to you and tell you all the misery I have gone through. 
 For even a broom has a heart. 
 
 I know you, tall man, ever since the days of my happy child- 
 hood. My home was your home too. I, too, was born in the 
 Kintzig Valley. You know, perhaps, the still little lake in the 
 farthest corner of the valley? It turns the mill of the middle 
 farmer on the mountain. Just above that little body of water 
 that looks out, like an eye of the Earth, upon the lonesome world 
 around it, my mother stood — a stately old birch. 
 
 It was spring when I first came to the consciousness of being. 
 In the meadows below me spring flowers were blooming, above 
 me sang the larks; in the lake at my feet the trout played, and 
 we little birch twigs caressed each other in the soft air. 
 
 After spring came summer. The shepherd boys la}' in the 
 pastures and sang while the sheep peacefully fed beside them. 
 
 Gay parties went on past us up to the castle, the Heidburg. 
 In the fields the men worked merrily and busily. The sun smiled 
 afar over countless wooded heights and, as if veiled in silver, the 
 hills of the Kintzig Valley looked up at us. 
 
 " How beautiful is the Earth and life on her," I thought often 
 in the spring and summer time of my young life, when even the 
 storms did not seem able to hurt us. For, when a storm burst 
 over us, we little birch-children danced and sang like a lot of 
 playing boys. 
 
 The old birch-mother would chide us and say : " Do not be 
 too wild, children, or you'll feel it the more when you come upon 
 days in which everything will not be as you like." 
 
 We laughed when she talked like that, and told her she was 
 cranky and envious of the delights of youth.
 
 H. HANSJAKOB. 233 
 
 " The time will come when you will think of me," she might 
 say then, " when you are far away from home, deserted and de- 
 spised." 
 
 And then she would tell us the following story, which she 
 had heard from her forebears : " Once the birch was a holy tree. 
 The old Kelts who had lived up there, long, long ago, would come 
 into the birch forests in May time to offer sacrifices to their gods, 
 drink the birch sap, and dance decently beneath the birch 
 branches. 
 
 " But when the Franks and the Alemanns came from the 
 Ehine into this valley and over the hills, they brought with them 
 their God Wodan and their Goddess Freya, and the other devil 
 gods. Then the women learned to be servants of the devil. They 
 mounted their birch brooms and flew over to the high mountains, 
 the ' Farnkopf ' and the ' Kandel,' and there practiced all sorts 
 of evil rites in honor of Freya. 
 
 " In the day time they kept their birch-broom steeds hidden 
 in the kitchen, so that they would be at hand when they wanted to 
 fly through the roof to ride to the devil mountains. 
 
 " But from the convent at Gengenbach, which the Frankish 
 dukes founded, came the monks and preached the Christian re- 
 ligion. 
 
 " They forbade the women witchcraft and the riding of 
 brooms, and told them instead it were better to use the brooms 
 to sweep the filth out of their huts, to serve the true God, and fly 
 the devil and his works. 
 
 " To drive out the devil the better the monks taught the 
 people to make switches out of the birch twigs, and to punish the 
 children with them when they did not mind. 
 
 " Thus were birch-brooms first made and also switches and 
 cat-o'-nine-tails. And since that time countless birch-children 
 have had to leave their homes and their mothers, victims in the 
 cause of the culture and the education of humanity. 
 
 " Some of us go to perish in dust and filth, and others must 
 leave their lives by bits on the backs of bad boys and girls. 
 
 " Happy the birch-children who may stay with their mother
 
 224 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 until she too must die and then rise in a fiery glow to heaven, 
 when the Black Forest peasants light their midsummer fires." 
 
 Thus would the old birch-mother tell us tales and try to 
 point out to us the seriousness of life. But in vain. We played 
 on and enjoyed ourselves. 
 
 One day, you, too, to whom I am telling my life, went through 
 our birch grove. You came up from the valley. Beside you 
 there walked a very old, little man. 
 
 You stopped beside my mother, leaned against her trunk to 
 rest yourself, and then you said to your companion : " There's 
 nothing but misery in this world, grandfather." 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, there's nothing else," he answered. " But 
 one does not notice it until one gets old." 
 
 Then you two went on again softly, toward the Heidburg, but 
 the birch-mother called out to us : " Did you hear now what there 
 is in life?" 
 
 But indeed we did not listen; we only played on more gaily, 
 for we were young. 
 
 Then came the fall. The leaves turned yellow. The fogs 
 rose from the valley and covered forest and meadow. The 
 shepherd boys lay no more in the tall grass a-singing, as in the 
 summer days. Shivering and silent they went up and down with 
 their flocks. Sad of face the peasants dug the ground apples out 
 of the cold earth. 
 
 On the field that we little birch-children could overlook, a 
 poor day laborer was doing the same work. Tlie farmer to whom 
 belonged the field, the mill, the little lake, and the birch grove 
 had allowed the poor man to plant this raw piece of ground with 
 potatoes. 
 
 Xow the man was digging his scanty crop out of the poor soil. 
 His wife and his two children helped him at his work. 
 
 Our motlier knew him well and had warned us against him 
 even in the springtime, for in his spare moments he made brooms. 
 
 And truly, what do you think happened? One morning the 
 farmer came up out of the fog on his way toward the mill. When 
 Michael, for that was the laborer's name, saw him he laid down
 
 H. HAN8JAK0B. 225 
 
 his hoe and went over to him and said : " To-morrow I'll be 
 through digging potatoes and then I want to begin making 
 brooms. And so I wanted to ask 3'ou if I could cut your old birch 
 for withes. I'll work a few days for you in the springtime in 
 return." 
 
 " To be sure, Michael/' said the farmer. " The birch grove 
 will have to be cut down any way next year. The trees are old 
 enough now, and birchwood brings a good price down in the city." 
 
 At his words a moaning went through the grove, and old and 
 young began to lament at the thought of death. Then we little 
 ones first believed our mother's words. 
 
 On the second day after Michael came down with his two boys, 
 who dragged a hand cart between them. 
 
 There was but little time for wailing and farewells. One of 
 the boys was climbing up the trunk of our mother, a sharp knife 
 in his teeth. I became unconscious with fright. When I re- 
 covered I was lying with numberless other birch-children under 
 the thatched roof of an ancient hut up in the field which Michael 
 worked. He himself was sitting on the bench beside the stove, 
 cutting and binding some of us into brooms. 
 
 I could watch Michael through the little windows which we 
 almost covered. Peacefully puffing away at his pipe, he cut the 
 birch twigs and tied them together, never dreaming that he was 
 destroying merry lives as he did so. 
 
 But then you human beings have little sympathy for the suf- 
 fering that you inflict upon thousands of fellow-creatures. You 
 only know how to destroy the works of the Creator. You act 
 as if you were the lords, and ruthlessly sacrifice everything to 
 your selfishness. 
 
 But I could not be angry long at Michael. He was a poor man 
 and want taught him to make brooms. And then he had no idea 
 that plants and trees have life and feeling also. 
 
 He was an honest, contented man. He and his lived poorly, 
 but righteousl}', were satisfied with coarse food, hoped for a 
 better life in another world, and folded their hands three times a 
 day in prayer to their Lord and God.
 
 226 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 One morning he brouglit us children of the old birch-mother 
 at the little lake into his warm room too, to put the last touch to 
 our misery. In the room there was an old woman, his mother, 
 who moaned and prayed day and night. Many years she had lain 
 there, helpless with rheumatism. At the sight of her I felt sorry 
 for you human beings for the first time and the last time. It 
 did seem too much to me that the poor old mother, whose lot had 
 been nothing but hard work and care all her life, had to suffer 
 so much before she died in that miserable room in that lonely 
 place. 
 
 But the more I learned to know your brutal ways afterward, 
 the less sympathy and pity I had for your sufferings. 
 
 One cold winter evening Michael tied twenty-five new brooms, 
 among them me too, together, put them on his hand cart, and 
 started off across the heath with them. In the distance I got a 
 glimpse of the birch grove that had been the home of my youth, 
 and cast one long, sad look back at it. 
 
 At a lonely house called " The Rose Inn " Michael stopped. 
 A wagon was standing here with a horse hitched to it. The 
 teamster was sitting inside in the warm room, only his dog was 
 left outside to watch and bark at the poor man with the brooms. 
 He, however, paid no attention to the yelping, but threw his 
 brooms on the wagon and went in, too. 
 
 Every Friday evening Hans, that was the driver's name, passed 
 up here. He came up out of the Kintzig Valley and went on 
 toward Freiburg for the Saturday market. Whoever had any- 
 thing to sell, fruit, butter, eggs, chickens, sheep, calves, brooms, 
 brought his goods to " The Rose Inn " and gave them to Hans 
 to take to the market. 
 
 In the warm room of the inn Hans and his customers were 
 sitting comfortably bargaining, buying, selling, drinking, while 
 outside the poor beasts shivered and waited. 
 
 I had barely had time to look about and discover as com- 
 panions in misery several bags of oats and a basket of hens, when 
 a farmer came driving up from the other side of the heath and 
 brought a sheep and a calf, threw both of them, bound as they
 
 H. HANSJAKOB. 987 
 
 were, into the wagon and went on into the inn too. The poor 
 beasts groaned with pain. The chickens complained softly, wliile 
 we poor brooms bore our misery in silence. 
 
 Then the driver's old spitz dog began to bark scornfully at 
 the poor beasts: "Why are you so sad, your lordships? Are we 
 not all on the way to the beautiful city of Freiburg? There your 
 miseries will soon be ended. The chickens will have their heads 
 cut off and the sheep and the calf will have their throats cut. 
 Then the people will fall over your corpses and devour them." 
 
 At this the poor creatures began to sliake and shiver with 
 fear. And indeed they might well be afraid of man — the heartless. 
 
 " And you," the dog continued, turning to us brooms, " you 
 will be a little better off. You will at least live a little longer 
 than the rest of the children of the country. You may enjoy the 
 dust in the houses and the filth on the streets of the city, and 
 between times stand in a dark corner and be glad you are living 
 on this beautiful earth." 
 
 Now the horse, who had been listening to everything, turned 
 around and called out : " You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
 stupid beast of a dog, to speak so to your fellow-creatures. Why 
 should you put yourself above others? Hunger and blows and 
 kicks are your lot, too, and you have experienced the ingratitude 
 and brutality of men as well as I have. 
 
 " For the last ten years you and I have been faithful in Hans' 
 service, yet he lets us stand out here, cold and hungry and thirsty, 
 while he is comfortable inside. 
 
 " When you are old he will kill you and throw you into the 
 garbage. When I am old he will send me to be killed, and in the 
 mean time curses and blows and whippings are all we get." 
 
 Then the dog, shamed into silence, lay down and grunted to 
 himself. 
 
 At last Hans came out, followed by the farmers, laborers, and 
 women whose goods he was to sell. He hung his lantern on the 
 wagon, lit it, and started off. 
 
 When we came down into the valley an old woman stood at 
 the crossroads and called out of the darkness to us. It was Butter
 
 238 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Barby. These many years she bought up butter for the Freiburg 
 market and waited here every Friday evening for Hans. She 
 put her big baskets of butter in the wagon and then climbed up 
 beside him. 
 
 She began to complain that there was no fun in trading in 
 this bitterly cold weather. The day before she had tramped from 
 farm to farm, gathering up the butter, and wind and weather 
 seemed to go to her very marrow. If it were not that now and 
 then one of the women gave her something warm to drink, it 
 would not have been bearable. And then to drive the whole night 
 in the cold wagon and go and sit in the cold market-place as soon 
 as they got into town ! One could do penance for one's sins these 
 days. 
 
 Thus she lamented. But Hans was not moved. He thought 
 that his own life was no easier, and for that matter it was part 
 of their business. If she had become a seamstress, or something 
 like that, she could sit beside the stove in the winter and in the 
 shade in the summer. 
 
 When we reached the town after the long, cold night ride, 
 Hans said to Barby : " You might offer the brooms that are lying 
 in the back of the wagon for sale along with your butter. Michael 
 gave them to me to sell for him. He is a poor man, and I should 
 like to sell them at as good a price as possible, but you know more 
 about the city women than I do, and so can sell them better." 
 
 " Certainly," Barby answered. " I will try to sell the brooms. 
 Birch-brooms are not wanted any more, but I'll do the best I can." 
 
 A half hour later we birch-children were lying at Barby 's feet 
 in the market-place at Freiburg. 
 
 In the darkness and fog the market-women, loaded with heavy 
 baskets, sat down on the long rows of benches in the cold, stone- 
 paved place, and waited shiveringly for the city women to come 
 and buy. 
 
 WTien the cold morning sun lit up the place I saw that we 
 miserable brooms were among the least, if not the very least, of 
 all the things offered for sale. 
 
 It was a long time before my fate was decided. First the
 
 H. HANSJAEOB. 229 
 
 buyers marketed their eatables — vegetables, and eggs, and butter, 
 skimping the poor country women as much as possible in the 
 price. Nobody seemed to be looking for brooms, and although 
 Butter Barby had sold nearly all her butter, we poor birch-chil- 
 dren were still lying at her feet untouched and unsold. She 
 asked over and over and over again, " Don't you need brooms ? " 
 and was answered, " Birch brooms are out of fashion. The liired 
 girls are ashamed to use them nowadays." 
 
 At last an elderly, plainly-dressed woman came along and 
 asked for a birch broom. She wanted it not for herself, but for a 
 cook who did not want to carry it home. This cook gave her the 
 coffee grounds and other things left over in the kitchen, and in 
 return she, the poor woman, did errands for the cook. 
 
 Barby chose a broom and gave it to the woman for twenty 
 pennies. I was that broom. 
 
 The woman took me under her arm and went on through 
 streets and avenues, and at last entered a small but fine house. 
 
 In this house my real misery began. What I suffered in the 
 half year I spent there would fill a book. But I will be brief, for 
 the meadows are still damp and you might take cold if you sit 
 here listening to me too long. 
 
 The house was the home of a young married couple. He was 
 the son of a rich brewer and lived on what his father had left 
 him, doing nothing but amusing himself. She was the daughter 
 of a poor university professor and had married the young million- 
 aire because his money promised her a luxurious existence. 
 
 He smoked cigars, played billiards, went hunting and shooting, 
 read the papers, and speculated a little. She played the piano, 
 painted a little, rode the bicycle, read novels, went to the theater, 
 and gave afternoon receptions. Of keeping house she had not 
 the remotest understanding. She could not even make tea. 
 
 When she did come into the kitchen occasionally and talk 
 about cooking, what she said was so stupid that the cook and 
 the chambermaid could hardly keep from laughing, and made 
 fun of her as soon as she left. The servants in the house were 
 girls who had rid themselves in the city of everything they had
 
 230 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 brought with them from their country homes: costume, manner, 
 dialect, and, following the example of their employers, religion 
 also. Sunday morning was given up to going out walking with 
 their good friends among the soldiers instead of going to church. 
 
 The servants were usually amicable, because they were all 
 agreed to cheat their emi)loyers as much as possible. That was 
 how 1 came into the house, the difference in my cost and a broom- 
 corn broom going into the cook's pocket. But the mistress and 
 master were less agreeable than the servants. Sometimes, late 
 at night, I could hear them call each other very unpleasant names ; 
 she casting up to him the origin of his money, and he calling her 
 a beggar and like things. But the next day they would seem to 
 have made it up again and all one heard was " Dear August " 
 and " Emma, dear." 
 
 Thus I spent my time, either mistreated in the dirt and filth 
 of the street and kitchen or behind the door in darkness and 
 dust. 
 
 But the hour of my deliverance seemed at hand. The winter 
 had been long. The streets were dirtier than ever. You know 
 in Freiburg it is still the custom for each householder to sweep 
 in front of his own place. And these times were really the hap- 
 piest for me, for the elderly woman, who bought me, did this 
 work for the cook. The cook was ashamed to be seen sweeping 
 on the street. The woman always washed me nice and clean then 
 in the little stream which flows through all the streets of the city. 
 
 One evening the cook told the woman to throw me into this 
 stream when she was through with me and buy a new one. I was 
 good for nothing more. You must know that you mistreat the 
 water, which is nice and clean when it comes from the mountains, 
 as you do everything else. You throw your refuse and dirt into 
 it and make it miserable. 
 
 But I was glad to be out in the water in God's free air, even if 
 I was maimed and disfigured. As I was floating merrily past the 
 linden trees in the lower town a rude hand grabbed me and drew 
 me out of the soft waves. The man carried me into a stable 
 saying, " I can use this broom." From the kitchen of a fine house
 
 H. HANSJAKOB. 231 
 
 to a stable is a great step down, but yet I found better people in 
 the stable than in the kitchen. 
 
 The groom had remained a peasant at heart, even if he had 
 come into the city. He was honest, kindly, and industrious. He 
 was the friend of the horses and talked with them, coaxed, and 
 petted them. He and his master, the landlord of the Linden Inn, 
 were on a pleasanter and more considerate footing than the 
 millionaire brewer's son and the professor's daughter. 
 
 If the man had not pulled me out of the water I could have 
 liked him, for he was the only human being I had so far seen 
 who had any sympathy with other creatures. 
 
 On the afternoon of the first and last Saturday I spent at the 
 Linden Inn stables a farmer came across the courtyard as if he 
 were looking for something. When he saw me he carried me out 
 into the street, where his wagon was standing, and laid me under 
 a little keg, so it would not roll around when he was driving 
 along. 
 
 I was on one side, and on the other was a piece of wood. The 
 man had been looking for a second piece of wood, and not finding 
 it, had seen me and had rescued me from my captivity. 
 
 Then the farmer and his wife got into the wagon and we went 
 out of the city. I soon noticed that we were going up the valley 
 toward the Black Forest. 
 
 Far up the valley the farmer drove; nearer and nearer came 
 the mountains and the forests, and swifter and more swift the 
 rivulets came down the hills. 
 
 At a lonely farmhouse on the other side of the river, which 
 here was young and small, the wagon stopped at last. 
 
 It was the home of the farmer. In front of the cellar door 
 the keg was unloaded and I thrown into a corner behind the 
 house. 
 
 Here I lay in the warm spring sunshine and nobody bothered 
 about me. I heard again, as once before, the birds singing and 
 the shepherds calling, but you know from your own experience 
 that this is not happiness at all times. 
 
 Old, tired, worn people, creeping toward the grave, are only
 
 233 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 made sadder when spring comes and everything is young and 
 joyous, because they feel that they never can be so again, and that 
 their own springtime is past forever. 
 
 So it happened to me, the old, used-up birch-child. The 
 singing birds and the yodeling shepherds, the lovely sunshine and 
 blossom-covered meadows, but made me think of my happy youth, 
 lost forever, and made my soul more sad. 
 
 In front of tlie house the farmer's mother, a very old, wrinkled 
 little woman, was wont to sit, thinking and dreaming, warming 
 herself in the sun's rays. But every once in a while I heard her 
 murmur : " What good am I here on earth any way ? " and then 
 she would take her rosary out of her pocket and pray, I really 
 believe that she prayed each time to be soon and graciously re- 
 lieved of the misery of this life. 
 
 Spring passed and summer came. Both seemed to bring con- 
 tent and happiness to everything inside and outside of the farm- 
 house, except to the old grandmother and to me. 
 
 We sighed in the midst of the sunshine and longed for the 
 end. And it came. 
 
 Scarcely had fall brought the first fog over the valley when I 
 saw the old grandmother no more. She had laid dowTi to die. 
 One morning they carried the life-weary body down into the 
 valley, followed by her weeping children and grandchildren. 
 
 She had finished her earthly suffering, the old woman, and 
 her passing away filled me anew with the desire for an end. 
 
 But how was it to come? I often wished the farmer's wife, 
 or her maid, would see me and throw me into the kitchen fire, 
 or that the river, which flowed past but a few steps away, might 
 carry me along on its journey toward Father Rhine. 
 
 I still dreamed of a grave by the Rhine's lovely banks, of 
 which I used to have a glimpse from the hills of my youth. 
 
 Then — it was on the feast of All Saints — the sluices of heaven 
 were opened one night, and for days the rain poured down. 
 
 The river rose and crept up toward the farmhouse in the 
 narrow valley. The children laughed with delight at the rising 
 water, while their father watched it anxiously.
 
 H. HANS JAKOB. ^v. 233 
 
 The little ones threw bits of wood into the rapid-flowing 
 waves, and shouted when they danced away out of sight on the 
 swift current. 
 
 While they were playing thus, little Hans, the farmer's young- 
 est, spied me and did me the favor of throwing me into the waves. 
 This time I felt sure that I would be carried out into the Rhine, 
 where torn and broken, I might at last die. But he whom mis- 
 fortune has set out to pursue, it pursues to the last. So too with 
 me. I had hardly been carried as far as the city when I was 
 floated into the canal, which branches off here, and was built to 
 water the meadows of the Carthusians long ago. 
 
 The guard had opened the sluices that were placed here and 
 there and the waters carried me into the ditch where you meet 
 me to-day. When the cold weather came the guard turned the 
 water off and all the long winter I lay here in the dry ditch, help- 
 less, alone, and unhappy. 
 
 In the beginning of spring an old frog sometimes kept mc 
 company. He came hopping up the ditch on warm evenings and 
 croaked out his complaints into the quiet night. 
 
 " Oh, these terrible people," he would croak. " How they 
 torture us poor frogs. In the springtime when we sing with the 
 joy of life they come, the heartless ones, catch us at the water 
 edges, and cut us up alive, take away our lower limbs, and leave 
 the rest of our body to its agonies and its pains. 
 
 " And in the winter, when we bury ourselves under the waters 
 to rest, they drag us out and treat us the same way." 
 
 Thus the old frog-patriarch complained and croaked until one 
 night he too came no more. Some boys, who came across the 
 meadows in the warm spring night, caught him and cut him up. 
 
 Since then, it may have been about three weeks ago, I have 
 been alone again in my misery. 
 
 I often saw you pass. I saw, too, how you would sometimes 
 stop some ragged beggar coming along the way, question him, 
 give him something, and lot him go on. And then I would think 
 to myself — if that long dark man but knew your misery he would 
 surely release you.
 
 234 FROM THE STORY OF AN UNHAPPY LIFE. 
 
 To-day you came to me and I made use of the opportunity and 
 told you my life. 
 
 I sec it in your face that you have had sympathy with my 
 tale and tlierefore 1 venture to ask just one favor : 
 
 Take me away from here. But do not throw me into the 
 river. I have no luck in the water. Over there in the grove I 
 see smoke rising. Where there is smoke there must be fire. 
 Carry me to that fire and throw me into it. I will then rise as 
 smoke and join the clouds that are going northward just now. 
 May a happy fate carry me along with them over onto the heath 
 where I was horn, and there let me drop down as a tear into the 
 little lake beside which my mother stood, and over which I passed 
 tlie happy days of my childhood. By this time the farmer will 
 have cut down the birch grove and my mother too, but when the 
 branches of a young generation of birches are reflected in the 
 clear, still waters of the lake, then I will weep for them and for 
 myself — weep for my past and for their future. But I shall smile 
 too among those tears, smile, because I may weep and end my 
 existence there where it began; l)ecause I shall hear birds sing 
 again and shepherd boys yodel in my old home, as I did when I 
 was a happy l)irch-child. 
 
 Thus spoke the old broom, and as it had won my heart by the 
 story of its unhappy life, I picked it up and said : " Poor crea- 
 ture, unhappy victim of an unhappy race, your wish shall be ful- 
 filled. But one thing I ask of you and that is, you must not 
 depart this life in bitterness. You must first forgive the beings 
 who made you unhappy. 
 
 " Believe me, old, unhappy birch-child, there is a much heavier 
 burden of misery on mankind than what you endured behind the 
 kitchen door. Therefore forgive and forget. 
 
 " Remember that men are much more unhappy than you crea- 
 tures. They feel life's misery much more and they must more- 
 over suffer for the sins of our first parents, who drew all posterity 
 and all Nature into the curse of their sin. 
 
 " Therefore we sigh for release and redemption, and, with us, 
 all the creatures who suffer under the sins of man,"
 
 H. HANSJAKOB. 235 
 
 The broom nodded approvingly and I went on: " May heaven 
 fulfil your last wish and let you rest in the little mountain lake 
 of our home. And if my own wish is fulfilled, I, too, will rest 
 some day at the foot of the heath in which is the lake that is to 
 be your grave." 
 
 And when I had said it I M^alked over to the edge of the woods 
 with it. Here the city poor, who shared with me the old Car- 
 thusian monastery that was now the poorhouse, had cleared the 
 ground of the winter's underbrush and loose leaves, and were 
 burning up both in a merry fire. 
 
 Into these I threw my poor friend, to the astonishment of tlie 
 old men, who saw me coming along with an old broom. 
 
 " There's no loss in that," said one of them. But none sus- 
 pected that an unhappy creature was being released from a sad 
 existence. 
 
 I stood there until the broom was burned up. In light, curl- 
 ing smoke it rose to the clouds and drifted over the woods toward 
 the Kintzig Valley. 
 
 I looked after it long and seriously. Wlien it had disappeared 
 on the other side of the woods I turned away with the words: 
 " May you reach the hills and the forests safely, where we were 
 both once young and happy." 
 
 Fpintki) by Benziokr Brotbkrs, New York. 
 
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