CHAPTER XXI.

SUNSHINE ON THE LAKE OF GARDA.

Two years have passed, every day bringing more enjoyment than the last.

To Stineli came the knowledge that it was time for her to return to her

home, and she had many a hard battle with herself to keep up her courage

and cheerfulness; for to go away, and probably never return, was the

most dreadful prospect that ever presented itself to the young girl's

imagination. Rico also knew what was before them, and sometimes he would

only speak when it became absolutely necessary. And a strange, unnatural

feeling took possession of mother Menotti, and she tried to discover the

secret cause; for she had quite forgotten that Stineli was to go home

again to be confirmed. When at last the cause of the trouble came out,

she said, "Oh! you can put that off for another year;" and so things

fell back into their old comfort again.

On the third year, however, a message came from Bergamo (some one came

down there from the mountain) that Stineli was wanted at home, and must

go. Now there was no help for it. Silvio might fight against it like one

possessed: it did no good. Against fate it is useless to struggle.

Mother Menotti said, day after day, towards the end, "Only promise to

come back, Stineli. You may tell your father I will do any thing he

wishes, if he will only let you come back soon."

Rico said nothing at all. And Stineli went off; and day after day it

seemed as if a big black cloud lay over the household, and as if the

very sun outside had ceased to shine.

And so it went on from November to Easter, when everybody was rejoicing;

but it was still sad in Rico's house. After the Easter festival was

over, and every thing was beginning to be more beautiful than ever

before in the garden, and flowers and sweet odors were spread all

abroad, Rico sat by Silvio's bedside, and played every sad melody that

he could remember, until the little fellow was in a most melancholy

mood, when suddenly from the garden a merry voice called out,--

"Rico, Rico! have you no more cheerful welcome for me than this?"

Silvio screamed as if beside himself. Rico threw his violin on the bed,

and ran out; and mother Menotti came in, half frightened.

On the threshold stood Rico with Stineli; and so in Silvio's room there

was the long-lost sunshine back again, and they were as merry as ever

again, and happy as they had never believed would be possible during

their long separation. There they all sat at table by Silvio's bedside,

and questioned and answered, and told all that had happened, and ever

and again broke out into rejoicing over their reunion. Who would have

thought, to see them there, that any thing could be wanting to the

perfect happiness of these four people? But Rico knew another tale. In

the midst of all the merriment, he became absent-minded, and fell into

one of his old dreamy moods. It did not last as long as formerly,

however. He must have reached a satisfactory conclusion pretty soon; for

suddenly his reverie was over, and he said these words, with the utmost

decision, "Stineli must be my wife this very moment, or else she will

have to go away again directly; and that we could not endure."

This decision pleased Silvio mightily; and in a short time they were

all of the same way of thinking, that the sooner the marriage took

place the better.

On the very most beautiful May morning that ever shone over Peschiera, a

long procession started from the church towards the "Golden Sun."

At the head, tall and well-proportioned, came Rico with his stately

mien; and at his side walked Stineli, looking happy and pretty, her

smooth braids crowned with the fresh bridal wreath. Next in the

procession, in a well-upholstered little wagon, drawn by two merry

Peschiera urchins, Silvio might be seen, beaming with satisfaction like

a triumphant victor; and last of all followed mother Menotti, very much

moved and affected, in a rustling wedding-dress; behind her the servant

lad, with a nosegay that covered his whole shirt-front; and after them

streamed all Peschiera, with the very noisiest kind of participation,

for they all wanted to look at the handsome couple, and to do them

honor. It was almost like a great family festival, in which they all

joined to help the strayed and lost Peschiera boy to found his own home

in his native town.

The joy of the landlady of the "Golden Sun," when she saw the procession

coming towards her house, is quite indescribable. Whenever the question

arose concerning any wedding, low or high, she always said, with

emphasis,--

"That is nothing at all in comparison with Rico's wedding in the

'Golden Sun.'"

The house in the garden never again lost its sunshine, and Stineli took

good care "Our Father" was never forgotten again; and on every Sunday

evening the grandmother's hymn was sung in the garden in full chorus.

HOW WISELI WAS PROVIDED FOR.

CHAPTER I.

COASTING.

On one of the hills surrounding the city of Bern a little village is

perched which shall be nameless in this story; but if you are curious,

and go there in your travels, perhaps you may recognize it from the

following description. On the very top of the hill stands one solitary

house, with a beautiful garden about it. It is called "On the Height,"

and is the property of Colonel Ritter. The descent to the little square,

where the church and parsonage stand, is sharp (in the parsonage the

colonel's wife passed her happy days of childhood); and somewhat farther

down is the schoolhouse, amid a little cluster of houses; while on the

left, as you still descend, you see a lonely cottage with a pretty,

well-kept garden, surrounded by currant-bushes, and adorned with

mignonette and pinks, and a few roses amidst its chiccory and spinach.

This is the last house on the road, which, from here on, makes one long

stretch downward to the highway that goes far out into the country,

parallel with the river Aar.

This long, unbroken descent forms, in winter, the most perfect

coasting-ground imaginable; for once you are past the steep bit by the

colonel's house, you may go on without interruption quite down to the

road by the river; that is, always supposing that you make a fair start

at the beginning.

This coast was an endless source of pleasure to the army of children who

daily poured out of the door of the old schoolhouse when lesson hours

were over, ran to the yard where they had piled their sleds on entering,

took each his own from the heap, and scampered off in wild haste to

begin their afternoon amusement. How the hours passed no one could

imagine: down flew the sleds in a twinkling, and nobody felt the trouble

of climbing up the hill, so full were all the little heads of the

pleasure of going down again; and so the night, and the time for

returning to their homes for supper, always took them by surprise.

This usually occasioned a stormy scene before they left the

coasting-ground; for everybody wished to go down "once more," and then

"just _once_ more," and then "one single turn more,"--so that everybody

hurried and jumped onto the sleds, and flew down and ran up again in a

regular hurry-scurry.

A rule had been established to the end that no one should go down the

coast while the others were still climbing up, but that all should go

down one after the other in good order, to prevent confusion or

accidents. Notwithstanding this good rule, there were often many

lawless proceedings, especially towards the close of the day, when

nobody wished to be the last, and when they all crowded onto the coast

very closely together.

This was the state of affairs on a clear evening in January, when the

snow fairly crackled under the children's feet as they mounted the hill,

and the fields in every direction were frozen so firmly that you could

have gone anywhere over them in a sleigh as if they were the highway.

The children were all rosy and glowing with their exertions, for they

were hurrying up the steep hill, pulling their sleds behind them,

turning them about in a flash, jumping upon them, and off again head

foremost, not to lose a second of the precious time until the moon shone

brightly in the crisp sky, and the evening bells were ringing. All the

boys were shouting, "Once more; just once more!" and the girls were as

eager as they. At the top, however, where they all threw themselves upon

their sleds, there was great excitement and uproar. Three boys each

claimed to have reached the top first, and would not yield an inch to

each other, but all must go down at once. And so they pushed this way

and that, until a big boy called Cheppi was hustled quite against the

bank of snow at the side of the coast, and found that his heavily ironed

sled was fast in the snow. He was furious, for he saw that now all the

other fellows would get off before he could extricate himself. He looked

about, and presently espied a little slender girl standing near by in

the snow. She was very pale, and held both arms wrapped in her apron to

keep them warmer, for all that she trembled and shivered with cold from

head to feet. She looked so feeble and miserable, that she seemed to

Cheppi just the proper object upon whom to vent his rage.

"Can't you get out of a fellow's way, you stupid thing? What are you

standing there for? You have not even a sled with you. Just wait a

moment; I'll help you to get along!"

So saying, he thrust his boot into the snow, intending to kick it over

the girl. She sprang back, however, quickly, so that she went quite up

to her knees in the snow, and said timidly, "I was only looking on."

Cheppi was thrusting his boot into the snow again with the same

intention towards the child, when he received such a tremendous box

on the ear from behind, that it almost knocked him off his sled.

"Just you wait a minute," he shouted, beside himself with anger, for

his ear tingled as it had never tingled before; and doubling up his

fists, he turned himself to see who was his hidden foe. A boy stood

behind him, and looked on very quietly, holding his sled in position

for another coast.

"Come on," he said calmly.

It was Otto Ritter, a class-mate of Cheppi, with whom he was always

engaged in some little quarrel. Otto was a tall, slender boy, about

eleven years old, and not nearly of the same strength as Cheppi; but

the latter had learned more than once that with hands and feet Otto was

much the more skilful of the two. He did not strike out, but held his

fists doubled up, and cried out angrily, "Let me alone: I am not

meddling with you."

"But I am with you," replied Otto, in a very warlike tone. "What

business have you to chase Wiseli away like that, and then to kick snow

at her, I should like to know? I have been looking at you, you coward!

teasing a little girl who cannot defend herself."

With these words he turned his back contemptuously towards Cheppi, and

called out to Wiseli, who was standing shivering all this time in the

deep snow,--

"Come out of the snow, Wiseli. Oh, how you are shivering, child! Have

you no sled really, and only been able to look on? Here, take mine, and

go down once quickly. Do you know how?"

The pale, timid girl did not know what to make of this kindness. She had

been looking on for some little time, watching the sleds as they flew

down the hill, and thinking, "Oh, how I should like to go down to the

very bottom just once!" when she saw two, and sometimes three, going

down on the same sled. But now she might go down all alone by herself,

and that, too, on the very handsomest sled on the coast,--the one with a

lion's head, that went faster than any other, because it was light, and

was bound with iron. She was so happy that she stood still, looking

after Cheppi with a half feeling that he might strike her if she dared

to enjoy such a piece of good fortune. But there he stood quite

tranquilly, as if nothing whatever had happened; and by him stood Otto,

with such a protecting air, that she took courage, and seated herself on

the handsome sled; and when Otto called out, "Go on; go on, Wiseli!" she

obeyed, and away she flew as if the wind were behind her. Very soon Otto

heard the coasters all toiling up the hill again, and he called out,

"Stay among the first, Wiseli, and go down again; after that we must go

home." Wiseli was only too happy to do as she was bid, and enjoyed for a

second time the long-wished-for pleasure. Then she brought the sled to

its owner, thanking him shyly for his kindness, but more with her

beaming eyes than with words; and off she scampered as fast as she could

go. Otto felt decidedly happier. "Where is Pussy?" he called out,

peering into the already scattering crowd. "Here she is!" replied a

merry voice; and out of the knot of children appeared a red-cheeked,

plump little girl, who slipped her hand into her big brother's

protecting palm, and went with him towards their father's house as

quickly as possible. It was very late, and they had over-passed the

allotted time for coasting.

CHAPTER II.

AT HOME WHERE ALL ARE HAPPY.

When Otto and his sister came noisily in through the deep stone entrance

of their father's house, the old servant Trine appeared in a doorway

holding a light high above her head to see whence came all the uproar,

and from whom. "So," at last she said, half scoldingly, half pleasantly;

"your mother has been asking for you for a long time, but there was no

trace of you, although it struck eight nobody knows how long ago." Old

Trine had been maid-servant in the family when the children's mother

came into the world, so she was an authority in the household, and felt

that she was one of its members,--to tell the truth, the very head of

the establishment; for surely she was the oldest in age and experience.

The dear old woman was fairly foolish in her fondness for her master's

children, and very proud of all their qualities and acquisitions. She

would not let this be seen, however, but employed an indignant tone when

speaking to them; for she thought it best for their education not to

appear perfectly satisfied with their conduct.

"Off with your shoes, on with your slippers!" she called out at once,

according to rule; but her order was immediately executed by the

commander, for she knelt before Otto while she spoke, to take off his

wet shoes. He had sunk down upon the nearest seat. His little sister

stood perfectly still in the middle of the room without stirring, which

was such an unusual circumstance, that Trine looked over her shoulder

two or three times to see what it could mean. Now that Otto was

equipped, it was Pussy's turn to sit down and be attended to; but she

stood stock still, and did not stir. "Well, well! if we wait there

until summer comes, our shoes will get dry of themselves," said Trine,

still on her knees. "Hsh, hsh, Trine! I hear something. Who is in the

big parlor?" said Pussy, lifting her forefinger up a little

threateningly. "Everybody who has dry shoes: nobody else admitted. Now

make up your mind to sit down," said Trine. But instead of sitting

down, Pussy made a spring upward, and cried, "Now I hear it again;

Uncle Max laughs just like that." "What!" cried Otto, and reached the

parlor-door with one leap.

"Wait, wait!" Pussy called after him, and ran to the door at the same

time; but she was caught and placed on the seat, although old Trine had

hard work to get the shoes off the little kicking feet; but perseverance

at last accomplished the business, and off ran Pussy out of one door and

through the other into the big parlor, where truly sat Uncle Max in the

arm-chair. Now there was a fine jubilee, and a hugging and kissing over

and over. Uncle Max certainly made as much noise as the children, and it

was a long time before they were quieted enough to speak a rational word

to each other. A visit from this uncle was always a time of great

delight for the children, and with good reason, for he was extravagantly

fond of them. He was a great traveller, and only came to see them once

in two years; but then he made up for his long absence by giving himself

entirely to his little friends as if he were no older than they; and the

queer and enchanting presents that he had stuffed into every pocket for

his little niece and nephew would be hard to describe.

Uncle Max was a naturalist, and travelled to every corner of the world,

bringing back something curious and interesting from each place.

At last supper was served, to the immense satisfaction of the whole

party,--for the children always brought home new appetites from the

coasting-ground, and were prepared, both old and young, to do full

justice to the steaming dishes set before them.

"Well," said Colonel Ritter, glancing across the table at his little

daughter, who was seated beside her mother, and already too busily

engaged in satisfying her hunger to look up from her plate. "Well, well;

it seems rather strange to think that Pussy has no hand to spare for her

papa to-day. I have not had one single kiss, and now it is too late."

With a contrite air Pussy pushed back her plate, saying, "O papa, I

forgot! I will give you"--

But her father said, quickly, "No, no; do not make a disturbance now,

child. Give me your hand across the table; we will have the rest later.

That will do now, Pussy."

"What was this child christened, Marie? I was certainly present at the

ceremony, but I have utterly forgotten her name. Not Pussy, I am sure,"

said Uncle Max, laughing.

"You certainly were present, Max," replied his sister, "for you are the

child's godfather. She was named Marie. At this time her father

nicknamed her Pussy, and Otto has multiplied that in the most

nonsensical manner."

"Oh, no, mamma; not nonsensical," cried Otto, quite seriously. "You see,

uncle, it follows in very sensible order. When the little thing is

gentle and good, then I call her 'Pussy.' That is not always the case,

however, and 'Puss' does for some of her moods; but when she is angry,

and looks like a regular cross-patch, then I call her 'Old Cat.'"

"Yes, yes, Otto," answered his sister; and when you are angry, you look

like a--like a"--

"Like a man," said Otto; and as Pussy had no better comparison ready,

she went on busily eating her pudding.

Uncle Max laughed heartily. "Pussy is right," he said. "She does far

better in pursuing her present occupation than in answering back such

slanders. But, children," he began again, after a pause, "it is more

than a year since I was here, and you have not told me about any thing

that has taken place during my absence."

The latest events were those that occurred first to the children; and

they began to tell, generally both speaking together, the story of

Cheppi's rude treatment of Wiseli on the coast, and of how cold the girl

was, and how she stood shivering in the snow, and had no sled of her

own, but got a chance to coast down twice after all.

"That is right, Otto," said his father. "You must honor your name. You

must always be a true knight for the persecuted and unprotected. Who is

this Wiseli?"

"You cannot know any thing about the girl nor her mother," said his

wife. "But Uncle Max knows Wiseli's mother very well. You remember that

thin weaver who was our neighbor, don't you, brother? He had an only

daughter with big brown eyes, who often came to us at the parsonage, and

sang so sweetly. Can't you remember her now?"

While Uncle Max was trying to recall the somewhat fading recollections

of his youth, old Trine put her head into the room, saying,--

"The carpenter Andrew would like to speak to you, Mrs. Ritter, if it

will not disturb you too much."

This apparently innocent message produced a wonderful effect upon the

whole family. Mrs. Ritter put down the tablespoon, with which she was

about to help her brother a second time to fruit, and said hastily, "If

you will excuse me, gentlemen," and left the room. Otto sprang up so

quickly that he knocked his chair over backwards, and then fell over it

himself in his haste to get away. Pussy was about to follow the others;

but her uncle, seeing the movement, put his arms about her, and held her

fast. She struggled, however, and said, entreatingly,--

"Let me go, uncle; let me go. Really, I must go."

"Where do you want to go, Pussy?"

"To see the carpenter Andrew. Let me go quickly. Help, papa; help!"

"If you will tell me what you have to say to the carpenter, I will

let you go."

"The sheep has only two legs left, and no tail at all; and the carpenter

is the only person who can mend him. Now _do_ let me go!" And now Pussy

was off too.

The gentlemen looked at each other, and Max burst out into a merry

laugh. "Who is this carpenter Andrew, pray, who seems to have the power

of attracting your whole family to his feet?"

"You ought to be able to answer that question better than I," replied

the colonel. "He must also be one of the friends of your youth. The fever

of adoration you ought to understand also: it must be one of your family

characteristics; and your sister has introduced it into her family. I

can only tell you this much: this Andrew is the very corner-stone of my

house. Every thing depends upon him, and we should all fall to pieces if

his support were withdrawn from us. Andrew is the counsellor, comforter,

safety, and aid in any trouble. If my wife thinks she wants any utensil

for household use, even if she does not know how it should look, nor

what use to put it to, Andrew the carpenter invents it, and makes it on

the spot. If the kitchen is on fire, or the water gives out there, or in

the laundry, Andrew the carpenter smothers the fire, and procures floods

of water. If my son does some sad piece of mischief, Andrew the

carpenter repairs the damage in a trice. If my daughter smashes all the

crockery, Andrew the carpenter glues it together at once. So you see

that this man is really the very pillar of my edifice; and if any thing

should happen to him, we should straightway go to pieces."

Mrs. Ritter had returned to the room during this account of Andrew the

carpenter's virtues, and her husband had heightened the description for

her benefit. Uncle Max shouted with laughter.

"Yes, laugh away; laugh away!" said she. "For all that, I know very well

what a treasure I possess in Andrew the carpenter."

"So do I, for that matter," said her husband, laughing merrily.

"I do, too," said Pussy, heartily, who was again on her seat at

table.

"So do I," grumbled Otto, while he rubbed his shins, that ached from his

recent fall over the chair.

"Well, now we are all of one mind about it, and the children can go

quietly to bed," said their mother. These words did not tend to restore

quiet, for the children became rebellious; but it was useless. Old Trine

stood on the threshold, and was ready to carry out the family rules and

regulations. Off marched the children, and presently their mother also

disappeared again; for there were the evening prayers to be said, and

she never failed to be at their bedside for that.

When, at last, every thing was in order in the house, Mrs. Ritter joined

the gentlemen once more.

"At last!" said the colonel, with a sigh of relief, as if he had

vanquished the enemy. "Now you see how it is, Max. My wife belongs first

of all to the carpenter Andrew, then to the children, and only to her

husband when there is nothing else for her to do."

"And now you see, Max," said his sister, laughing, "that, although my

husband speaks scornfully of Andrew the carpenter, he does assign him a

very high rank after all. Now acknowledge that, won't you? He has just

given me a message for you. He has brought his yearly savings with him

to-day, and begs for your assistance."

"That is true," said the colonel. "A more orderly, industrious, reliable

man I do not know. I would trust my wife, my children, my goods and

chattels to him rather than to any one else. He is the most honorable,

trustworthy man in this parish, or in any other, I do believe."

"Now you see, Max," said his sister, laughing, "I could not say more

than that." Her brother joined with her in her amusement at the zest

which the colonel showed. Then he said,--

"You have all been so full of the praises of your marvel, that I have

become curious, at last, to know where he comes from, and how he looks.

Have I never seen him when I have visited you?"

"Oh, yes! you used to know him perfectly well," replied his sister. "You

must remember Andrew, with whom we went to school. Don't you recall the

two brothers who were always in the same classes with you? The elder was

even then a perfect good-for-nothing,--he was not stupid, but would not

study, and did not get on, and was put down into one of the lower

classes with his brother and you. You must remember him,--his name was

Jorg, and he had stiff, black hair. He always pelted us with something

whenever he got a chance,--with green apples or pears, and in winter

with snow-balls,--and always called us 'aristocrats.'"

"Oh, that fellow!" cried Max. "Yes; now I do remember all about him.

Certainly he always called us 'aristocrats.' I wonder how he got hold of

that word. He was a disagreeable fellow: I remember that well. I caught

him once thrashing a little fellow most cruelly. I helped the little

one, and he shouted after me at least twelve times in succession,

'Aristocrat, aristocrat!' And now it comes back to me about the other

one, the lean Andrew, his brother. He was your Andrew, was he not,

Marie?--the Andrew with the violets? Oh, now I comprehend this great

friendship," said Max, laughing again.

"What is this about the violets? I want to know all about that," said

the colonel.

"Oh! I can see the whole thing just as it happened as plainly as if it

were only yesterday," said Max, quite animated over his recollections.

"I must tell you all about it, Otto. You have probably heard from your

wife that we had here, in the happy time of our childhood, an old

schoolmaster, whose creed was that all faults could be whipped out of,

and all virtues be whipped into, the children under his care. So he felt

himself constrained to whip a great deal either for one thing or the

other, and very often for both at once. Andrew's turn came one day, and

the master applied his well-meant rule so heartily that poor, thin

Andrew screamed with pain. At this moment my little sister, who had only

entered the school a short time before, and did not understand the rules

very well, stood up from her seat and hastened to the door. The teacher

held his hand for a moment, and shouted after her, 'Where are you

running to?' Marie turned about. The tears were running down her cheeks,

and she said, very decidedly, 'I am going home to tell my father.'

'Wait, I will teach you!' cried the master, in the greatest surprise,

and sprung after the girl. He did not strike her, however, but took her

roughly by the arm, and set her down very hard upon the bench; then he

said again, 'Wait, I will teach you!'

"It was the end of that, however. He did not touch Andrew again, and

every thing passed off quietly that day. But the tears that Marie had

shed for Andrew, and her protest against the whippings, were not

forgotten. From that day forward a big bunch of violets was always

placed on Marie's desk, and the whole room was perfumed with them; and

later a still better scent filled the air, for there were every day

great bunches of dark red strawberries, such as nobody else knew how to

find. And so it went on for the whole year; but how the friendship

reached the height at which it now stands, that I will leave to my

sister to relate, for I do not know myself."

The colonel was much pleased with this story of the tears and the

violets, and begged his wife to tell more about it. She said, "According

to you, Max, violets and strawberries grow all the year round; but, in

truth, it is not exactly the fact. But it is true that the good Andrew

was never tired of bringing in any thing that he thought would give me

pleasure all through the time we were in the school together. He left

long before I did, and went to learn his trade of a joiner in the city.

He came home very often, however, so that I never really lost sight of

him; and when my husband bought this piece of land and we were married,

it happened, also, that Andrew bought property, and wished to be

settled. He had lost his parents, and was quite by himself, and a

first-rate workman. He wanted the little house with the neat, pretty

garden down there half-way to the church; but was not able to purchase

it, because the owner wished for full payment at once, and Andrew could

only pay in instalments, as he earned the money.

"But we knew all about him and his work. My husband purchased the place

for him, and he has never had the least reason to regret it."

"No, indeed I have not," added the colonel. "Andrew has long ago paid

for his house, and now he always brings me the yearly amount of his

labor; and a very pretty sum it is, too. I invest it well for him, and

have a sincere satisfaction in the welfare of the sturdy fellow. He is

already a very well-to-do man, and adds to his property every year, and

can make his little house into a big one if he have a mind to do so, the

good Andrew. It is too bad that he is such a hermit, and cannot,

therefore, properly enjoy his home and his possessions."

"Has he, then, neither wife nor family?" asked Max. "And what has become

of his disagreeable brother Jorg?"

"No; he has really nobody," replied his sister. "He lives entirely

alone, and really like a hermit. He has had a long and very sad history

that I have been witness to, and which has taken away all the desire he

once might have felt to look for a wife. His brother Jorg wandered about

here in a disreputable way for several years, never working, but in the

hope of getting something, by his infamous behavior, out of his family,

who were respectable people, quite unlike himself. But, at last, he saw

that there was no chance of this, and even the kind Andrew refused to

pay any more of his debts, or to help him out of any more scrapes, so he

disappeared, nobody knows where; but everybody rejoiced that he was out

of the way."

"What was the sad story of which you spoke, Marie?" asked her brother.

"I want to hear that, too."

"So do I," said the colonel; and lighted another cigar, in order to

enjoy the tale more thoroughly.

"But, my dear husband," objected his wife, "I have at least told you

this story ten times over."

"Really," said the colonel, quietly, "it seems that it pleases me then,

if I ask for it again."

"Oh, do begin!" said her brother.

"You cannot have forgotten the child, Max," began his sister, "of whom I

was speaking yesterday, who lived quite near to us. She belonged to the

pale, thin weaver, whose shuttle we could always hear moving back and

forth when we stood in our garden. The child always looked clean and

neat, and had great lively, sparkling eyes, and beautiful brown hair.

Her name was Aloise."

"I never knew anybody by the name of Aloise in my life," interrupted Max

at this point.

"Oh! to be sure not," said his sister. "We never called her so, you

especially. 'Wisi' we called her, to the horror of our dear departed

mother. Don't you remember, now, how often you said yourself that we

must get Wisi to sing with us when mamma played songs for us on the

piano, and we could not make it go at all without Wisi's help?"

At last Max seemed to remember about it, and laughed at the

recollection. "Oh, yes! I remember Wisi," he cried. "Yes, certainly that

was Wisi. I can see her now, before my eyes, with her bright face, as

she stood by the piano and sang so cheerily. I was very fond of her. I

was very fond of her,--of Wisi. She was very pretty, too. I remember,

too, what a shock it always seemed to mamma when I said, 'Wisi.' I

really never knew her proper name."

"Oh, yes, you did," replied his sister; "because mamma always said

it was perfectly barbarous to change the pretty name of Aloise

into 'Wisi.'"

"I certainly never heard it each time," said Max. "But pray what has

become of this Wisi?"

"You remember she was in my class at school, and we kept along together;

and I often think of how Andrew always befriended and stood up for the

girl through thick and thin, and that she knew well how to turn his

friendship to good account.

"When she came with her slate full of examples, like the rest of us, her

figures were not often correct; but she put the slate, with a merry

laugh, on her desk, and lo! soon the sums were all rightly set down, for

Andrew had put them in order. It often happened that she smashed a pane

in the schoolroom window, or shook down the schoolmaster's plums in the

garden; and yet Andrew was always the one who took the blame of these

misdeeds,--not that anybody accused him, but he himself used to say,

half aloud, that he believed it was his fault that the glass was broken,

or the plums shaken down, and so he got the punishment. We children all

knew well enough who was to blame; but we let it go, we were so used to

it, and were so fond of the merry Wisi, that we all were pleased when

she escaped punishment.

"Wisi had always pocketfuls of apples, pears, and nuts, that all came

from Andrew; for every thing that he had, or could procure, he used to

stuff into Wisi's satchel. I used often to wonder how it happened that

the quiet Andrew liked the very most unruly and gayest girl in the

school, and I also wondered whether she returned his affection. She was

always very friendly with him, but she was the same with others; and as

I once asked our mother how it could be, she shook her head a little,

and said, 'I am afraid,--I am afraid that the nice little Aloise is a

trifle heedless, and may have to suffer for it.' These words gave me

much food for thought, and recurred to me again and again.

"We went together to the Bible-class; and every Sunday evening Wisi used

to come regularly to our house, and we sang hymns together to the piano.

She particularly enjoyed this. She knew all the lovely songs by heart,

and sang them clearly and well; and mamma and I were very much pleased

to know that Wisi liked to sing, and went gladly to the Bible-class, and

seemed to take the religious teaching very much to heart. She had grown

into a fine large girl now, with bright eyes; and, although she did not

look very strong, like the peasant girls in the villages, still she had

a fine color, and was far prettier than any of them.

"At this time Andrew was learning his trade in the town, but invariably

came home on Sundays. He always came up to the parsonage to call, and

was inclined to talk to me about our former schooldays; and gradually

we worked round to Wisi, and talked about her most of the time. Andrew

spoke most eloquently and feelingly on this subject; and, although

everybody else had adopted the name 'Wisi' for Aloise, he never called

her so, but said 'Wiseli' so softly and prettily, that it was very

sweet to hear.

"But one Sunday (we were not quite eighteen years old, Wisi and

I,--mamma was with us that evening) Wisi came in looking very rosy, and

said that she had come to tell us that she was betrothed to a young

workman who had come lately to live in the village, and that they would

soon be married, as he had a good position, and it was arranged that

they could be married in about twelve days. I was so surprised, and so

sorry, that I could not say a word. Neither did my mother speak for a

long time, but looked very much troubled.

"After a time she talked very seriously with Wisi,--told her that it was

foolish in her to have taken up so quickly with a workman of whom she

really could know very little, and especially when there was another who

had sought her for long years, and plainly shown her how much he loved

her; and, at last, she asked her if it could not be broken off, this

engagement,--or, at least, put off for a while, Wisi was still so young,

and ought to remain with her father. Then Wisi began to cry, and said

that it was all arranged; that she had given her promise, and that her

father was pleased. So my mother said no more about it; but poor Wisi

cried bitterly, until my mother took her by the hand, and led her to the

piano, and said kindly, 'Dry your tears: we will sing together.' And she

played the accompaniment, and we sang,--

"'To God you must confide

Your sorrow and your pain;

He will true care provide,

And show you heaven again.

"'For clouds and air and wind

He points the path and way;

Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray.'

"After this, Wisi left us apparently comforted, and my mother spoke

kindly to her at parting; but I felt very sadly about the whole affair.

I had a conviction that poor Wisi had passed her happiest days, and

would never be light-hearted again; and I could not express my sorrow

for Andrew. What would he say? He said nothing,--not one word,--but went

about for several years like a shadow, and became more silent than ever,

and had no longer the quietly happy expression that formerly

distinguished him."

"Poor fellow!" cried Max. "And did he never marry?"

"Oh, no, Max!" replied his sister, rather reproachfully. "How could he

do so? How can you ask such a question? He is faithfulness personified."

"How could I know that, dearest sister?" said Max soothingly. "I could

not be expected to know that your gifted and inestimable friend

possessed also the quality of steadfastness. But tell me some more about

Wisi. I hope, truly, that the merry creature was not unfortunate. It

would grieve me sadly to think that."

"I see plainly, brother, that all your sympathies are secretly with

Wisi; and that you are not sorry for the faithful Andrew, whose heart

was nearly broken when he found that he had lost her."

"Yes, yes," said Max. "I have the greatest sympathy for the good fellow.

But do tell me how it was with Wisi: did she cry her pretty eyes out?"

"Almost, I believe," replied Marie. "I did not see her very often, and

she had a great deal of work to do. I believe that her husband was not a

bad fellow; but there was something very rough about him, and he was

rude and unkind even to his own little children. Wisi had a hard time of

it. She had a good many pretty children; but they were very delicate,

and she lost them one after the other. Five she buried, and has only now

one tender little girl,--a little Wiseli,--who is not much larger than

our Pussy, though she is several years older. Naturally Wisi's health

has been sadly tried with all this, and it is plainly visible now that

it has almost reached the end with her. She is rapidly wasting away in

consumption. I fear that there is no hope for her."

"Oh!" cried Max, "is this possible? Is it really so bad as that? Can

nothing be done, Marie? Let us look after her, and try if we cannot mend

matters somewhat."

"Oh, no! there is no chance for her," said his sister, sadly. "From the

very beginning Wisi was too delicate for all the work and care that came

upon her."

"And what became of her husband?"

"Oh! I quite forgot the sad trouble that poor Wisi had to endure

with him also.

"About a year ago, he broke an arm and a leg in the workshop, and was

brought home half dead. He was very ill, and could not work, and

certainly was not a patient sufferer. Wisi had the care of him in his

sickness, in addition to every thing else, and he died about six

months after the accident. Wisi has lived alone with her child since

that time."

"Then there will soon be nothing left but a little Wiseli, and what will

become of her? But, no; it will not turn out so sadly, I am sure. Wisi

will get well, and every thing be right again, as it should have been in

the beginning."

"No, not so, Max; it is too late for that," replied his sister,

decidedly. "Poor Wisi had to suffer sadly for her folly. But it is too

late indeed!" she said, rising, almost frightened to see that it was

after midnight, and that the colonel, who had been silent for some time

past, was now sleeping in his arm-chair.

Max was not in the least sleepy, however. All this story of poor Wisi

had awakened in him such lively recollections of his childhood, that

he wanted to talk about many other events and people; but his sister

was not to be persuaded. She took her bed-candle, and insisted upon

going to bed.

There was nothing to be done but to awaken his brother-in-law, which he

did with such a tremendous thump on the back, that the colonel sprang up

with the feeling that he had been struck by an enemy's bomb-shell. But

Max tapped him kindly on the shoulder, saying, "It is only a gentle

warning from your wife that we must all beat a retreat." This was

accomplished, and soon the house on the height stood quietly in the

moonlight; and half way down the hill stood another house, where it

would soon be silent, too, though a still feeble light glimmered there,

casting a pale shadow through the little window out into the brilliant

moonlit night.

CHAPTER III.

ALSO AT HOME.

At the same time that the colonel's children were going home, the

little Wiseli ran along down the hill as fast as she could scamper, for

she knew she had remained away longer than her mother liked that she

should, and she very rarely did any thing of the kind. This evening had

been one of such unusual pleasure for her that she had quite forgotten

to go home at the usual time, and therefore ran all the faster, and so

almost fell against a man, in her haste, who came out of the door of

their cottage as she was rushing in. He stepped quietly to one side,

and Wiseli hastened into the room, and went to her mother's side. To

her great surprise, she found no light in the room,--her mother was

sitting in the twilight, on a low chair by the window. "Mother," said

the child, "are you angry because I was away such a long time?" and she

put her arms around her mother's neck as she spoke. "No, no, Wiseli,"

said her mother, kindly; "but I am glad that you have come at last."

The girl began at once to tell her mother about the delightful coast

she had had on Otto's pretty sled,--how she had gone twice down the

hill, and how pleasant it was. When she had finished her little story,

she noticed, for the first time, how very quiet her mother was,--much

more so than usual,--and she asked anxiously, "Why have you not lighted

the lamp, mother?"

[Illustration: WISELI HASTENED INTO THE ROOM, AND WENT TO HER

MOTHER'S SIDE]

"I feel so weary this evening, Wiseli," replied her mother, "that I

could not get up to light it. Go get it now, my child, and bring me a

little water to drink at the same time, I am so very thirsty." Wiseli

hastened to the kitchen, and soon returned with the light in one hand,

and in the other a bottle filled with red syrup, that looked so

temptingly clear and good, that the thirsty invalid called out eagerly,

"What is that you are bringing me? It looks so good!"

"I do not know," said the child; "it was standing on the kitchen-table.

See how it sparkles!" Her mother took the bottle, and smelled at it.

"Oh!" she said, smelling again, "it is like fresh, wild strawberries.

Give me some water, quickly, Wiseli; I must drink." The child poured

some of the red syrup into a glass, and filled it with water, which her

mother swallowed eagerly, as one parched with thirst. "You do not know

how refreshing it is, child," as she handed back the empty glass. "Put

it away, Wiseli, but not far. It seems to me as if I could drink it all

the time, I am so thirsty. Who brought me this refreshment, Wiseli: do

you know? It must be from Trine: she brought it from the colonel's."

"Did Trine come in here, mother?" asked the child.

"No; I have not seen her at all," said her mother.

"Then it is not Trine, I am sure," said Wiseli, decidedly. "She always

comes into the room when she brings anything for you. But Andrew the

carpenter came today: did not he bring this with him?"

"What, Wiseli," said her mother, very eagerly, "what are you saying?

Andrew the carpenter never came to see me: what made you think of that?"

"He was here, certainly; certainly he was here within this house. He

went out of the door so quickly that I almost ran into him. Did you not

hear him at all?"

Her mother was quiet for a long time without speaking; then she said, "I

did hear the kitchen door softly opened. At first I thought it might be

you, and--it is true, I did not hear you enter until later. Are you

sure, Wiseli, that Andrew the carpenter was the person who went out from

our door?"

Wiseli was sure of her affair, and told her mother exactly how the coat

and how the cap looked that Andrew wore, and how frightened he was when

she almost ran into him; so that, at last, she convinced the good woman,

who said softly, as if to herself, "Yes, it must be Andrew; he knows

what I like best."

"Now I remember something else, mother," cried Wiseli, quite excitedly.

"Now I know for sure who once placed a big pot of honey in the

kitchen,--you remember how much you liked that,--and then the

apple-cakes a day or two ago,--do not you remember? You wished to send

your thanks by Trine when she brought you something from the colonel's

kitchen, and she said that she knew nothing at all about them. Now I am

sure that Andrew the carpenter brought them, and secretly placed them in

the kitchen for you."

"Now I believe so, also," said her mother, and softly wiped her eyes.

"There is nothing sad about it, mother," said Wiseli, rather shocked to

see how often her mother kept wiping her eyes.

"You must thank him for me, Wiseli: I cannot. Tell him that I send him

my thanks for all the goodness he has shown me,--he has always been kind

to me. Come, sit down here by me a little," said she, softly. "Give me

some more of the syrup, and then come and repeat the verse that I taught

you the other day."

Wiseli brought more water, and mixed it with the syrup again, and her

mother drank of it eagerly; then she laid her head wearily upon the low

window-sill, and beckoned her little daughter to come to her side. It

seemed to the child that her mother could not be comfortable, and she

fetched a pillow from the bed, and placed it carefully under her

mother's head. Then she sat down close to her side on a footstool, and

held her mother's hand in her own, and complied with her request to

repeat the verses, thus,--

"'To God you must confide

Your sorrow and your pain;

He will true care provide,

And show you heaven again.

"'For clouds and air and wind

He points the path and way;

Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray.'"

As Wiseli finished, she observed that her mother was almost asleep; but

she heard her say, softly, "Think of this, my Wiseli; and when you do

not know which way to turn, and every thing seems difficult and

perplexing, then say to yourself these words,--

"'Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray.'"

Now the weary head sank down to rest, and little Wiseli would not awaken

her mother by a movement, but nestled up to her quietly, and slept also.

And the feeble light of the little lamp burned dimly in the quiet

room,--more and more feebly it burned, until it slowly flickered and

went out, and the cottage stood a dark object in the bright moonlight.

The next morning the neighbor from the nearest house stopped, as usual,

on her way to the fountain, to look through the window of the cottage to

see if all was well within. She saw that the sick woman was sleeping on

the pillow, with her head against the window-sill, and that Wiseli stood

weeping by her side. This seemed so strange, that she put her head a

little way into the room, and asked, "What is the matter, Wiseli? Is

your mother worse?" The child sobbed dreadfully, and could scarcely say,

"I do not know what ails my mother."

The poor child had a strong suspicion of what it all meant, but she

could not realize that her mother was lost to her. For she was still

there, but asleep,--asleep for all the rest of her daughter's life on

earth,--and could not hear how sadly the child called to her. The

neighbor stepped to the window and looked at the sleeping head upon the

pillow; then she started back in alarm. "Run quickly, Wiseli; run and

fetch your cousin Gotti. He must come at once. You have no other

relation, and somebody must look after things here. Run as fast as you

can: I will wait here until you come back."

The child ran, but not fast, her heart was so heavy within her, and her

limbs trembled; and at last she had to stop and give way to her tears,

for she became more and more sure, with every step, that her mother

would never waken more. But she went on again soon, although she could

not stop her tears, for her sorrow increased as she went. In the beech

grove, full a quarter of an hour's walk from the church, stood the

house of her cousin Gotti; and presently Wiseli entered the door, still

crying bitterly. Her cousin's wife stood in the kitchen, and asked

harshly, "What is the matter with you?" Wiseli replied, between her

sobs, that the neighbor had sent her to ask her cousin Gotti to come

quickly to her mother. Probably the woman suspected, from the child's

look, that her mother was more ill, for she spoke a little less roughly

than usual. "I will tell him. You can go home: he is not here now." So

Wiseli turned about, and reached home more quickly than she came, for

she was returning to her mother. The neighbor stood by the

doorstep,--she could not wait inside the room: it was not pleasant to

her. But the child stepped in, and went to her place by her mother's

side that she had kept all through the night. There she sat weeping,

and only said, now and then, softly, "Mother." But no answering word

came to her. At last Wiseli said, bending over her, "Mother, you can

hear me, although you are in heaven now, and I cannot hear your

answer." And the child sat holding her mother's hand tightly until long

after noontime. About that time her cousin Gotti entered the room,

looked about him a little, and then called for the neighbor. "You must

arrange things here a little,--you know what I mean," he said,--"so

that things will be ready for the removal. Then carry the keys away

with you, so that nothing will be taken." He then turned to Wiseli and

said, "Where are your clothes, little one? Get them together and tie

them up in a bundle, and we will go away."

"Where shall we go?" asked the child.

"We will go home to the beech grove. You can stay there with us, for you

have nobody else in the world now but your cousin Gotti."

At these words, Wiseli felt herself stiff with fear. Go to the beech

grove, and live with them there,--was that her fate? She had always had

the greatest fear of the wife of her cousin Gotti, and always stood a

long time before the door, when she was sent there with a message,

before she could summon courage to enter. The eldest son, Cheppi,--that

rough fellow,--lived there, and Hannes and Rudi; and they threw stones

at all the children. Was that to be her home?

Fear caused the child to turn pale and immovable.

"You must not be frightened, my child," said her cousin Gotti, in a

kindly tone. "There are more people in our house than there are here,

but it is all the more lively for that."

Wiseli put her things silently together in a shawl, and tied the two

corners together crosswise; then she tied her scarf about her head, and

stood ready.

"So," said her cousin, "now we will go," and turned towards the door;

but Wiseli sobbed out suddenly,--

"Then I must leave my mother all alone."

With these words she ran to her mother, and clasped her in her

arms again.

Her cousin Gotti stood rather disconcerted, and looked on. He did not

know how to explain how things were with her mother, if she did not

understand without words; for he was not strong in the matter of

expressing himself: he had never given himself the trouble to try. At

last, he said,--

"Now come, come along. A little child like you must be obedient. Come;

and, after this, no crying. That does not mend matters one bit."

The child swallowed her sobs, and followed the cousin Gotti silently

through the door. Once only she glanced backward, and said softly, "God

will watch over you, mother;" and then went forth with her bundle on her

arm, and left the little house which had been home to her. Just as she

and her cousin Gotti went together across the field, Trine came towards

them down the road, with a covered basket on her arm. The neighbor stood

in the doorway, and looked after the departing couple. Trine went

towards her, saying,--

"To-day I am bringing the sick woman something good. A little late, to

be sure. We have Uncle Max on a visit to us: that always makes me late."

"And even if you had come early in the morning, you would have come too

late to-day. She died last night."

"That cannot be!" cried Trine, startled. "Oh, goodness me! what will my

lady say?"

With these words she turned sharp about, and ran home as fast as

possible. The neighbor went back into the quiet room, and performed the

last kind offices for Wiseli's mother.

CHAPTER IV.

AT COUSIN GOTTI's.

When Wiseli made her entry into her cousin Gotti's house at Beech Grove,

the three boys came running out of the barn, and, behind Wiseli, into

the room, where they placed themselves in front of her in a row, and

stared at the timid little thing with all their eyes. Her cousin's wife

came out of the kitchen, and stared also at the little thing, as if she

had never seen her before.

Her cousin Gotti seated himself behind the table, and said,--

"I think she can eat something: she has not had much to-day. Come here,"

he said, turning to Wiseli, who stood all this time in the same place,

with her bundle under her arm. She obeyed. Now her cousin's wife put new

wine and cheese on the table, also a huge loaf of black bread. Cousin

Gotti cut a big slice, put a lump of cheese upon it, and pushed it

towards the child. "There, eat, little one," he said. "You must be

hungry, I'm sure."

"No, I thank you," said Wiseli, softly. She could not have swallowed

even a crumb. She felt as if she were crushed under her load of sorrow

and anxiety, and could scarcely even breathe.

The boys stood there all the time, and stared at her.

"Don't be frightened," said cousin Gotti, encouragingly. "Do eat

something." But the child sat motionless, and did not touch her bread.

Her cousin's wife came again; and, putting her hands on her hips, stood

looking her over from head to foot.

"If you don't want it," she said, "you can leave it;" and turned on her

heel, and went again into the kitchen.

When cousin Gotti had refreshed himself sufficiently he arose, and said,

"Put it in your pocket. By and by you will feel like eating, only do not

feel frightened;" and he went into the kitchen. Wiseli tried to do as he

told her, to put the bread and cheese into her pocket; but they were too

large, and she put them back upon the table again.

"I will help you," said Cheppi, snatching the pieces from the table; and

was about to stuff them into his open mouth, but they flew up into the

air instead, for Hannes had knocked Cheppi's hand up with a smart blow,

and so the plunder was scattered, and Rudi darted upon it, and carried

part of it away. With this the two oldest boys fell upon him, and they

kicked and cuffed, and screamed and shouted, until Wiseli was terribly

frightened. Presently their father opened the kitchen-door, and called

out, "What does this all mean?" Then the boys all answered at once, from

the floor; and one said, "Wiseli did not want it;" and another, "Wiseli

had not any;" and "As long as Wiseli did not want any"--

Their father called out, loudly, "If you do not stop that, I will come

in with the thong, and whip you." And he slammed the door again.

"It" did not "stop," however; but, as soon as the door was shut again,

it began worse than ever, for Hannes found that the best way to treat

the enemy was to grasp him by the hair; and so they all seized each

other by the hair, and stood in a ring, uttering terrible noises. In the

kitchen their mother sat on a stool, and peeled potatoes. When her

husband closed the door again, she asked,--

"What is your idea about that child? Why did you bring her home with

you at once?"

"I thought she would have to stay with somebody. I am her cousin Gotti,

and she has no other relatives. You can make her useful. She can do what

you are doing now. Then you will be able to do other things. You are

always saying that the boys give you so much work,--more than is right."

"Yes, as regards them, a great help she will be! You can hear now what

a racket there is in there, and she is only a quarter of an hour in

the house."

"I have heard that sort of thing a good many times before the little one

came. I do not think that she has much to do with it," said the cousin

Gotti quietly.

"Oh, you did not hear them!" said his wife sharply; "how they kept

calling out something about Wiseli?"

"Well, they may call out, if they want to," said their father. "You will

soon have the little one in hand. I think she is not a troublesome

child,--I noticed that in the beginning,--and is much more obedient than

those boys of yours."

This was too much for his wife.

"I do not see what is the use of finding fault with the boys," she said;

and she peeled the potatoes faster and faster. "And I _should_ like to

know where the girl is to sleep."

Her husband pushed his cap back and forth several times upon his head,

and said, soothingly,--

"One can't think of every thing at once. She must have had a bed to

sleep in; and she can, at least, have that. Tomorrow I will go to the

pastor. To-night she can sleep on the bench by the stove. It is always

warm there; and I can put a partition in the little passage that goes

into our room later, and set her bed in there."

"I never heard of bringing home a child and getting a bed for it a week

afterwards," said the woman crossly; "and I should like to know who will

pay for it if we must build something more for her into the bargain."

"When the parish assigns the child to us, they will allow us something

for her maintenance. I shall take her cheaper than any one else would

do, and she will be more comfortable here too."

With this the cousin went out into the shed, and called out for Cheppi

to come with him. It was hard for the cousin's wife to make herself

heard in the room when she wished to give this message. They were all

fighting away, and shouting angrily and loudly.

"I am surprised that you sit there looking on, and do not try to quiet

them in the least," said their mother to Wiseli, who sat cowering

against the wall, and did not dare even to move. Cheppi, however, was

dispatched to the barn, and the two others ran after him.

"Do you know how to knit?" the cousin's wife asked Wiseli, who replied,

timidly, "Yes, I can knit stockings."

"Well, then, take this," she said; and took from the cupboard a big

brown stocking, with yarn almost as stout as Wiseli's little fingers.

"Go on with the foot," she said, "and take care to make it big

enough: it is for your cousin Gotti." Then she went back into the

kitchen, and the little girl took her seat on the bench by the stove,

with the long stocking coiled up in her lap,--for it was so heavy

that she could scarcely knit if it hung down: it pulled the needles

out of her hand. She had scarcely begun to work, however, before her

cousin's wife came in again.

"I think you had better come out into the kitchen with me," she said.

"Then you can see how I do things, and be able to help me a little by

and by." Wiseli obeyed, and watched her cousin's wife at her work as

well as she was able; but the tears kept coming into her eyes so that

she could scarcely see, for she thought all the time of how she used to

go about in the kitchen with her mother, who chattered so pleasantly

with her, and how they would stop to kiss each other now and then. She

knew very well that she ought not to give way to her tears, and tried to

swallow her sobs, until she felt almost strangling.

"See here, look here," said the cousin's wife, every now and then; "then

you will know how to do it by and by." And she went about, here and

there, in the kitchen, letting Wiseli stand, and said nothing else to

her. This went on for some time, when there was a terrible stamping in

the entry, and the woman said, "Open the door as quick as you can: they

are coming." The noise was made by the cousin and his sons, who were

knocking the snow off their shoes before entering. Wiseli opened the

door into the inner room as quickly as possible; and the cousin's wife

lifted an enormous pan off the fire, and ran with it into the room,

where she shook a great heap of potatoes out over the slate-topped

table. Then she brought out a big jug of sour milk, and said, "Put the

things that are in the table-drawer on the table, and then they can all

sit down at once."

Wiseli pulled out the drawer as quickly as possible. There lay five

spoons and five knives. She put these upon the table, and the supper was

ready. The father and his sons came in, and sat down at once on the

seats along the wall behind the table. At the other end stood a chair.

Cousin Gotti made a motion towards the chair and said, "She can sit

there, I think; or do you say no?"

"Oh, certainly!" said his wife, whose seat was nearest the kitchen-door.

She did not remain seated a moment; but ran out into the kitchen and

came back, took a spoonful of milk, and was off again.

Nobody knew why she ran about in this way, for there was nothing cooking

in the kitchen, and nothing to bring out, but she always did so; and

when, sometimes, her husband would say, "Do sit still, and eat

something," then she seemed more hurried than ever, and said she had no

time to sit still, there were so many things to be looked after.

When she had made two visits to the kitchen and returned, and began to

peel a potato in great haste, she noticed, for the first time, that

Wiseli sat idly by her side, her hands on her lap. "Why don't you eat

something?" she said, angrily. "She has no spoon," said Rudi, who was

seated on the other side, and had long been wondering why anybody should

sit at table and not eat as long as there was any thing left. "Oh, yes,

of course," said his mother. "Who would ever have thought that we should

need six spoons? We have always found five enough; and we must have

another knife too. Why can't you speak? You know well enough that to eat

you want a spoon." These last words were addressed to Wiseli.

The child glanced timidly at the woman and said, "It is no matter: I do

not need any. I am not hungry."

"Why not?" asked the woman. "Are you used to a different kind of food? I

don't mean to change, if you are."

"I think it would be better to let the child alone for a while; we must

not frighten her," said her cousin Gotti, soothingly. "She will feel

better soon."

So Wiseli was unmolested, and the others were busily employed for a

while. She sat there motionless until her cousin rose, took his fur cap

from the nail, and began to look for the stable lantern; for "Spot" was

sick, and must be looked after again that night. The table was quickly

cleared. The empty potato-skins were brushed off into the empty

milk-jug, the slate-top wiped off; and when the woman was done with

this, she said, turning to Wiseli, "You have seen what I did; now you

can do it the next time." Now Cheppi took his seat firmly behind the

table again. He had his slate-pencil and arithmetic book, and prepared

himself to do his examples. First, however, he stared for a while at

Wiseli, who had again taken up her brown stocking, but did not make any

progress; for she could not see a thing in the dark corner where she

was seated, and she did not dare to draw nearer to the table where the

dim lamp was placed. "You must have something to do," cried Cheppi, in

an irritated tone. "You are not the smartest scholar in the school."

The girl did not know what to answer. She had not been to school that

day, and did not know what lessons were given out; and, besides, was

quite out of her usual habits and life generally. "If I must do my

examples, so must you, or I won't do them at all," cried Cheppi again.

Wiseli kept as still as a mouse. "Well, then, it is all right," said

the boy noisily. "I won't do another stroke of work." And he threw away

his pencil.

"Then I won't do any thing, either," cried Hannes, and stuffed his

multiplication-table into his satchel again; for learning his lessons

was the hardest thing in the world for him.

"I will tell the master whose fault it is," began Cheppi again. "You can

see, then, what you will get."

Probably Cheppi would have gone on in this unpleasant style for a long

time, if his father had not soon returned from the barn. He brought in

two big, empty grain-bags on his shoulders, and came up to the table

with them.

"Make room," he said to Cheppi, who sat with his elbows on the table,

supporting his head on his hands. Then he spread out his two bags,

folded them together again, and then again. At last he went towards the

bench behind the stove, and put them down on it. "There," he said, with

an air of satisfaction, "that is good. Where is your bundle, little

one?" Wiseli fetched it from her corner,--where it had lain ever since

she arrived,--and looked with surprise at her cousin Gotti as he placed

the bundle at the upper end of the folded bags, and pressed it down, so

that it was not perfectly round.

"There, now you may go to sleep," he said, turning round to Wiseli. "You

cannot be cold, for the stove is hot; and you can put your head on your

bundle, and you will be as comfortable as if you were in your bed.

"And it is time for you three to go to bed, too. Off with you: make

haste!" So saying, he took the oil-lamp from the table, and went towards

the kitchen. The three boys clattered along after him.

When he reached the door, he turned again and said, "There, sleep

soundly. Must not think any more to-night, and it will be better for you

by and by," and he went out. Presently his wife came into the room with

an oil-lamp in her hand, and looked at the place where Wiseli was to

sleep. "Can you lie there?" she asked. "You will find it warm enough by

the stove. There are plenty of people who have neither bed nor a warm

place to be in. You won't suffer in that way, and ought to be thankful

that you are under a good roof. Good-night."

"Good-night," replied Wiseli, softly; but the woman could not have

heard her, for she was already away when she spoke, and had closed the

door behind her immediately. Now Wiseli sat alone in the dark room.

Every thing about her was suddenly silent,--not a sound to be heard. A

straggling moonbeam shone through the little window,--enough to show

the child where the bench by the stove was, upon which she must find

her bed. She crossed the room, and seated herself there. For the first

time that day since she had left her dear mother, she found herself

alone, and able to think over what had befallen her. She had been

constantly under excitement until this moment; for every thing that

had happened frightened her. All that she heard or saw since she left

her home had been so very unpleasant that she could not stop to think

at all, but went from one alarm to another. Now there she sat alone,

without her mother, and began to realize that it was all over,--that

they would never see nor hear each other again in this world. And such

a sense of loneliness, of utter desolation, took possession of Wiseli,

that she believed herself uncared for and forgotten by everybody, and

feared that she should be left there alone to die in the dark. The

poor child laid her head down upon her bundle, and began to cry,

bitterly and despairingly, "Mother, can you not hear me? Mother, do

not you hear me call?"

Now Wiseli's mother had often told her little girl, that when things

went very badly with us here below, then was the moment to lift up our

voices and cry to God for help; for he would hear us in our trouble when

all other's ears were deaf, and help us when no other help was possible.

At this moment the child remembered these words, and she sobbed aloud,

"Oh, you dear God in heaven! help me also, I am so unhappy, and my

mother cannot hear me when I call!"

And when she had prayed thus several times over, she felt calmer. It

comforted her poor little heart; for now she felt that God was really

there in heaven, and could help her, and that she was no longer alone.

And presently she recalled her mother's words,--almost the very last

that she spoke: "My child, when you cannot see your way clearly before

you, and every thing seems strange and difficult"--And now it was so;

and how little she thought that it ever would be so, when her mother was

talking to her. Her mother told her to remember the words of the hymn,--

"Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray."

Now Wiseli first rightly understood these words, and felt their full

meaning. Before she had repeated them mechanically, for not until now

did she need them. But it was just her present case. Was not she full of

perplexity? and what could she possibly have in her cousin Gotti's house

but fear and trouble? And so she repeated, again and again,--

"Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray."

The child had found her way to her heavenly Father, and knew that he was

sure to help her; and she felt comforted. Folding her little hands, she

began the hymn at the beginning, for it seemed like talking to a kind

friend; and she said each word from her very heart:--

"To God you must confide

Your sorrow and your pain;

He will true care provide,

And show you heaven again.

"For clouds and air and wind

He points the path and way;

Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray."

A quiet trust now took possession of the child's heart. She fell asleep

soon after, her head supported on her little bundle, still repeating the

last lines of the hymn. And a pleasant dream followed. She saw before

her a dry bright pathway in the full sunlight, and the road led between

beautiful red roses and lovely pinks that were so attractive that she

longed to run to gather them. And by her side stood her dear mother, and

held her hand tenderly in her own, as she always did; and her mother

pointed along the pathway in her dream, and said, "See, my Wiseli; did

not I tell you so? That is your way."

"'Your road He'll also find,

Nor let your footsteps stray.'"

And the child was happy in her dream, and slept as soundly on her little

bundle as if she were on a soft bed.

CHAPTER V.

HOW TIME WENT ON, AND SUMMER CAME.

When old Trine carried the news back to the heights, and told them

there that Wiseli's mother was dead, and the child taken at once to her

cousin Gotti's, the whole family became greatly agitated. Mrs. Ritter

could not cease bewailing her neglect in not visiting the sick woman

before, for she had been postponing it from day to day; but, of course,

had not in the least realized how near the end might be. She was sadly

cast down, and sorrowful. And Otto: he went raging up and down the room

with great strides, and kept calling out angrily, "It is an injustice!

It is a great injustice! But if he dares to lay a hand on her to harm

her, he may look to his own bones, how many of them will be left whole

in his skin!"

"Who do you mean, Otto? Who are you talking about in that way?" said his

mother, looking curiously at her excited boy.

"About that Cheppi," he replied. "I do not know what dreadful things he

will do to Wiseli when he has her there in his own house. It is not

right, but just let him try"--But now Otto was interrupted by a repeated

and heavy stamping that prevented his being heard. "Why do you make such

a deafening noise, you pussy cat, there behind the stove?" he cried,

turning his indignation towards another quarter. Pussy came out from

behind the stove, but stamped more violently than before; for she was

trying to force her feet into her wet boots, which it had taken the old

Trine ever so long to pull off a while before. It was dreadfully hard

work; and Pussy became as red as fire, while she said,--

"Don't you see that I have to do so? Nobody in the world could get these

boots on without stamping."

"And what in the world do you want to put those wet boots on again for?

I have just pulled them off, so that you should not have them on. I

should just like to know what this means?" said Trine, who stood looking

on all this time.

"I am going to the beech grove this very minute to fetch Wiseli to

our house. She can have my bed," said Pussy, decidedly. But quite as

decidedly old Trine stalked over to Pussy, at these words, lifted her

up, placed her firmly on a chair, while she pulled off the boot that

was half on; but said, in a pacifying tone, to the kicking and

excited child,--

"That is all right! that is all right! but I will take care of you

first. You must not get two pair of shoes and two pair of stockings wet

through in one day. You can give up your bed. You can go up into the

lumber-room, if you want to: there is room enough there."

But Pussy had a very different plan in her little head. She thought

that she could free herself, in this wise, of a great and daily

recurring trouble, that often gave her both inward and outward

annoyance; namely, the being ordered off to bed every evening, and

obliged to go, into the bargain, just as she was in the mood to enjoy

herself especially. She thought that, if she gave up her bed to Wiseli,

there would be none other at hand for her, and so she could stay up as

long as she wanted to.

She was so delighted at this prospect, that she did not, at first,

notice how the sly Trine had wisked off her wet boots, and that now

there was no chance to fetch Wiseli.

When she fairly understood how she had been tricked, she set up such an

outcry that Otto put his fingers in his ears, and her mother came in, a

good deal alarmed at the uproar. She promised Pussy to talk over the

matter with her father as soon as he came home; for he had gone away

that very morning, with their Uncle Max, to pay a long-promised visit to

an old friend. After a while peace and quiet were restored in the

household. The gentlemen did not return for two weeks, however; but Mrs.

Ritter kept her promise. The first thing that she mentioned to her

husband, on the very evening of his return, was the fact of Wiseli being

an orphan, and her new shelter; and the colonel promised to go to the

pastor the very next day, to see what better arrangement could be made

for the child; and, having visited the pastor, the colonel brought back

the sad news, that, on the Sunday just past, the parish had taken the

matter into consideration, and that it was now settled. Wiseli must be

housed somewhere; and, as her mother had not left any property whatever,

she must also be maintained at the expense of the parish until she could

support herself. Moreover, her cousin Gotti had offered, in the first

instance, to take the child for a very slight compensation. He wished to

do an act of charity as far as he could afford it. He was known to be a

well-conducted man; and, as he made so slight a demand, it was agreed

and settled that the child should henceforth find her home with him.

"It seems to me a very good arrangement," said the colonel to his wife.

"The child will be well cared for there; besides, what else could be

done? She is much too small to be placed anywhere in service, and

certainly you cannot take every orphan child in the neighborhood into

your own house. You might as well turn it into an asylum at once."

Mrs. Ritter was very much disturbed by the news that every thing had

been settled so soon. She had hoped to be able to have found a different

home for Wiseli, who was, she knew, much too sensitive and delicate a

child to be happy in a home where rudeness and roughness were the rule;

but she had not a definite plan in her mind, and now there was nothing

to be done but to try to look after the child's comfort a little, and to

protect her, if possible.

Otto and Pussy did not take the affair so quietly, however. They were in

great excitement when they heard it all on the following morning.

Otto declared Wiseli's lot to be the lot of Daniel in the lion's den,

and brought his fist down on the table with the evident wish that he

were pommelling Cheppi's head. Pussy screamed, and cried a little;

partly out of pity for Wiseli, and partly from disappointment that she

could not now carry out her little plan of being able to sit up later in

the evenings.

But this excitement was at last quieted down, like every other, by time;

and the days rolled on in their wonted manner.

In the meantime Wiseli has become somewhat accustomed to the life in her

cousin Gotti's house. For one thing, her bed had come; and she no longer

slept on the bench by the stove, but in a little place partitioned off

from the passage between her cousin's room and that of the boys. There

was just room enough in this little place for her bed, and a little

chest, in which she placed her clothes, and upon which she had to climb

when she wished to get into her bed; for there was no space between.

She was obliged to go to the well when she washed; and, if it was very

cold, then her cousin's wife said she could give up washing for that

day, and do it on another when it was warmer. Now Wiseli was not used to

this style of thing at all. Her mother had taught her that cleanliness

was absolutely necessary; and Wiseli would have frozen rather than to

look untidy, and, therefore, displease her mother. To be sure, every

thing was different for her at home; for she washed and dressed herself

in her mother's room always; and many a loving word they exchanged until

the coffee was on the table, and they sat down together, and ate their

breakfast happily, before Wiseli started off for school.

But what a difference for her now! All, all was changed,--her whole life

from morning till evening; and often, at the thought of her mother, the

tears started into the poor child's eyes, and her heart ached so sadly,

that she felt as if she could go no farther, but must drop down, and

die. But she held herself bravely, for it distressed her cousin Gotti to

see her cry, and his wife scolded more than ever; for she, too, disliked

to see her dull.

The happiest part of the twenty-four hours for Wiseli was when she

climbed into her little bed at night, and had a moment's time to think

about her dear mother in peace.

At this time she always obtained comfort. She thought about her

beautiful dream, and felt perfect confidence that the good God would

find a way for her out of her troubles, as her mother had told her; and

she hoped that her mother was also in heaven, and would pray to God not

to forget her poor little child left alone in the wide world. Then

Wiseli always repeated her hymn, and slept quietly.

So the winter slipped away, and the spring with its sunshine followed.

The trees were green again, and the meadows were gay with primroses and

white anemones, and in the wood the cuckoo sang lustily; and soft, warm

breezes were all abroad, making every heart beat more cheerily; and one

rejoiced that life was still possible.