When Spring came again, and Kaspar got his little family together, what
could they have done without Franziska. She cooked, and scrubbed, and
sewed, and mended, and kept the patches on Heinrich’s knees; she knit
the long woolen stockings, and taught Gretchen all she could, just as
the good “Mutter” would have wished. And as the years passed away,
Kaspar and the children thought there never was a lovelier, sweeter
maid than Franziska Ulrich.
Karl Schultzer thought so too; he told her so one day and asked her
to be his wife. She put her hand in his, and, looking into his honest
eyes, said, “Karl, I love you too, but the last thing ‘die Mutter’
said on that--that dreadful day when she gave me Gretchen, was, ‘Take
care of her’;--I cannot leave her.”
“But now Gretchen is old enough to take care of herself,” urged Karl.
With a faint smile Franziska answered,--“Karl, you cannot change me;
I thought it all out as I lay upon my bed when my head was no longer
queer, and the first time I went to the church to pray to the ‘Heilige
Mutter’ I told her I would be faithful;--my word I cannot break”; and
seeing how it was with her, Karl kissed the eyes now full of tears and
went back home disappointed, but not despairing.
So the years sped until Gretchen’s nineteenth birthday.
One evening she hid her head in Franziska’s lap, and, with many a
break, confessed that the brave hunter from over the mountains had said
that he loved her, and asked her to be his wife.
“His wife you wish to be?” asked the tender voice.
“I love him,” was the whispered answer, “and to-morrow he comes to ask
‘der Vater.’”
If, for a moment, Franziska’s faithful heart ached, Gretchen never knew
it; and when “der Vater’s” yes had been spoken, no one entered more
heartily into the work and plans than she. What love and sympathy and
counsel, as well as work, she gave, no one save Gretchen ever knew.
On a bright morning, to the sound of music, there came marching down
the long street Gretchen in gay attire, followed by her mates; the
bridegroom and his friends, who had come over the mountain-passes to
see him married. And when, in the dim old church, the gray-haired,
fatherly priest had counselled them, married them, and blessed them,
Gretchen kissed “der Vater” and Heinrich good-bye; clung for a moment
to Franziska, as though she could not let her go;--then turned her face
toward the snow-clad mountains, beyond which lay her husband’s home.
As the day passed, how desolate was the house without bright, laughing
Gretchen. It seemed to Franziska as though she could not bear it, and
when her work was done she stepped out into the twilight that “der
Vater” and Heinrich might not see her grieving and her tears.
Suddenly Karl stood before her. He held out his hands and said, “So
long have the years been, Franziska, and the home so lonesome is; will
you now come?”
Then was her sorrow turned into joy, and she answered, “If you want me,
oh so gladly will I come to you, my Karl”; and Karl was content.
All this happened long ago, and both Gretchen and Franziska lived to
tell the story of their marvellous escape to their many grandchildren;
while “der Vater” never wearied of repeating, or Heinrich’s children
of hearing, how brave Franziska encouraged and cheered little Gretchen
through that long and terrible night.
Some time ago I stood above the buried village and looked up at the
Rossberg. The mountain has never smiled since that awful day. No
trees or shrubs or grassy meadows grow upon its sides; all is bare and
desolate. But in the valley the grass and moss grow green; the vines
twine themselves over and around the great rocks, from under whose
shadows ferns and lovely little flowers lift their heads.
Suddenly the soft, clear tones of the evening bell floated through the
air,--that sweet-voiced bell whose music reached Franziska and called
her back to hopes of life and home so long ago. How sweetly it sounded
on the quiet air,--coming,--going,--softer,--fainter; and when at last
it died away the sun had dropped behind the mountains, leaving the
rosy-tinted clouds peeping over their rocky edges; while in the valley
the shadows lay thick upon grass and vine.
Stepping softly, reverently, over the dead homes, Goldau and the night
were left alone together.
[Illustration]