"The Lord Jesus suffered such to anoint his feet," I said, "and she, you
told me, loves Him, has given up all dearest to her to keep his words.
Let us blot out the past as he does, and let her begin life again from
our home, if God wills it so."
Fritz made no further objection. And through the dewy forest paths we
went, we three; and with us, I think we all felt, went Another,
invisible, the Good Shepherd of the wandering sheep.
Never did the green glades and forest flowers and solemn pines seem to
me more fresh and beautiful, and more like a holy cathedral than that
morning.
After a little meek resistance Bertha came back with Fritz and me. Her
sickness seemed to me to be more the decline of one for whom life's
hopes and work are over, than any positive disease. And with care, the
grey pony brought her safely home.
Never did our dear home seem to welcome us so brightly as when we led
her back to it, for whom it was to be a sanctuary of rest, and refuge
from bitter tongues.
There was a little room over the porch which we had set apart as the
guest-chamber; and very sweet it was to me that Bertha should be its
first inmate; very sweet to Fritz and me that our home should be what
our Lord's heart is, a refuge for the outcast, the penitent, the
solitary, and the sorrowful.
Such a look of rest came over her poor, worn face, when at last she was
laid on her little bed!
"I think I shall get well soon," she said the next morning, "and then
you will let me stay and be your servant; when I am strong I can work
really hard and there is something in you both which makes me feel this
like home."
"We will try," I said, "to find out what God would have us do."
She does improve daily. Yesterday she asked for some spinning, or other
work to do, and it seems to cheer her wonderfully. To-day she has been
sitting in our dwelling-room with her spinning-wheel. I introduced her
to the villagers who come in as a friend who has been ill. They do not
know her history.
_January_, 1524.
It is all accomplished now. The little guest-chamber over the porch is
empty again, and Bertha is gone.
As she was recovering Fritz received a letter from Priest Ruprecht,
which he read in silence, and then laid aside until we were alone on one
of our expeditions to the old charcoal-burner's in the forest.
"Haller wants to see Bertha once more," he said, dubiously.
"And why not Fritz?" I said; "why should not the old wrong as far as
possible be repaired, and those who have given each other up at God's
commandment, be given back to each other by his commandment?"
"I have thought so often, my love," he said, "but I did not know what
you would think."