THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT.
"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;
Bless Thy little lamb to-night."
"Indeed you are right, Wilhelm," said his wife. "No doubt the poor
little maid must be hungry, only I had not the heart to waken her.--See,
Hans, there is some goat's milk in the corner yonder. Get it heated,
whilst I cut a bit of this bread, coarse though it be. 'Tis all we have
to give her; but such as it is, she is right welcome to it, poor little
lamb."
As she spoke she moved quietly to the bed where the child lay asleep. As
she woke she uttered the cry, "Fader, dear fader!" then raised herself
and looked around. Evidently the story of the day flashed upon her, and
she turned eagerly to the wood-cutter, asking if "fader" had come yet.
On being told that he had not, she said no more, but her eyes filled
with tears. She took the bread and milk without resistance, though she
looked at the black bread as if it were repugnant to her. Then she let
herself be undressed by Elsie, directing her to open the bag, and
taking from it a nightdress of fine calico, a brush and comb, also a
large sponge, a couple of fine towels, a change of underclothing, two
pairs of stockings, and one black dress, finer than the one she wore.
[Illustration: Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the
little "brown book."]
Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book,"
which was a German Bible, and read aloud, slowly but distinctly, the
last verse of the Fourth Psalm: "Ich liege und schlafe ganz mit Frieden;
denn allein Du, Herr, hilfst mir, dass ich sicher wohne" ("I will both
lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in
safety"). Then she knelt down, and prayed in simple words her evening
prayer, asking God to let father come home, and to bless the kind people
who had given her a shelter, for Christ's sake.
Elsie and Wilhelm looked at each other with amazement. Alas! there was
no fear of God in that house. Elsie might cross herself when she spoke
of spirits, but that was only as a superstitious sign that she had been
told frightened them away.
Of Christ and His power to protect and save they knew nothing. Roman
Catholics by profession, they yet never darkened a church door, save
perhaps when they took a child to be baptized; but they only thought of
that ordinance as a protection to their child from the evil one. God's
holy Word was to them a sealed book. True, all the wood-cutters were not
like them, but still a spirit of ignorance and indifference as regarded
religion reigned amongst them; and if now and then a priest sought their
dwelling, his words (such as they were) fell on dull ears. Things seen
and temporal engrossed all their thoughts. The daily work, the daily
bread, and the nightly sleep--these filled their hearts and excluded
God. So it was not to be wondered at that little Frida's reading and
prayer were an astonishment to them.
"What think you of that, Elsie?" said Wilhelm. "The child spoke as if
she were addressing some one in the room."
"Ay, ay," answered his wife. "It was gruesome to hear her. She made me
look up to see if there was really any one there; and she wasn't
speaking to our Lady either. Art sure she is a child of earth at all,
Wilhelm?"
"Ay, she's that; and the question is, wife, What shall we do with her?
Suppose the father never turns up, shall we keep her, or give her over
to them that have the charge of wanderers and such like?"
Here Hans sprang forward. "Nay, father, nay! Do not send her away. She
is so pretty, and looks like the picture of an angel. I saw one in the
church where little Annchen was baptized. Oh, keep her, father!--Mutter,
do not send the little maid back into the forest!"
But Elsie's woman's heart had no thought of so doing. "No, no, my lad,"
she said. "Never fear; we'll keep the child till some one comes to take
her away that has a right to her. Who knows but mayhap she'll bring a
blessing on our house; for often I think we don't remember the Virgin
and the saints as we ought. My mother did, I know;" and as she spoke
great tears rolled down her cheeks.
The child's prayer had touched a chord of memory, and recalled the days
of her childhood, when she had lived with parents who at least
reverenced the Lord, though they had not been taught to worship Him
aright.
Wilhelm sat for a few minutes lost in thought. He was pondering the
question whether, supposing the child was left on his hands, he could
support her by doing extra work. It would be difficult, he knew; but if
Elsie were willing he'd try, for his kind heart recoiled from sending
the little child who clung to him so confidingly adrift amongst
strangers. No, he would not do so.
After a while he turned to his wife, who had gone to the cradle where
lay their six-weeks-old baby, and was rocking it, as the child had cried
out in her sleep.
"Elsie," he said, "I'll set off at break of day, and go amongst my
mates, and find out if they have seen or heard aught of the missing
gentleman.--Come, Hans," he said suddenly; "'tis time you were asleep."
A few minutes later and Hans had tumbled into his low bed, and lay for a
short time thinking about Frida, and wondering who she had been speaking
to when she knelt down; but in the midst of his wondering he fell
asleep.
Wilhelm, wearied with his day's work, was not long in following his
son's example, and was soon sound asleep; but no word of prayer rose
from his heart and lips to the loving Father in heaven, who had guarded
and kept him from the dangers of the day.
Elsie was in no hurry to go to bed; her heart was full of many thoughts.
The child's prayer and the words out of the little book had strangely
moved her, and she was asking herself if there were indeed a God (as in
her childhood she had been taught to believe), what had she ever done to
please Him.
Conscience said low, Nothing; but she tried to drown the thought, and
busied herself in cleaning the few dishes and putting the little room to
rights, then sat down for a few minutes beside the stove to think.
Where could the father of the child be, she asked herself, and what
would be his feelings on returning to the place where he had left her
when he found she was no longer there? Could he have lost his way in the
great Forest? That was by no means unlikely; she had often heard of such
a thing as that happening. Then she wondered if there were any clue to
the child's friends or the place she was going to in the bag; and
rising, she took it up and opened it.
Besides the articles we have already enumerated, she found a case full
of needles, some reels of cotton, a small book of German hymns, and a
double locket with chain attached to it. This Elsie succeeded in
opening, and on the one side was the picture of a singularly beautiful,
dark-eyed girl, on the verge of womanhood; and on the other a blue-eyed,
fair-haired young man, a few years older than the lady. Under the
pictures were engraved the words "Hilda" and "Friedrich." Elsie doubted
not that these were the likenesses of Frida's father and mother, for the
child bore a strong resemblance to both. She had the dark eyes of her
mother and the golden hair of her father, if such was the relationship
she bore to him.
These pictures were the only clue to the child's parentage. No doubt she
wore a necklace quite unlike anything that Elsie had ever seen before;
but then, except in the shop windows, she had seen so few ornaments in
her life that she knew not whether it was a common one or not.
She put the locket carefully back in its place, shut the bag, and
slipped across the room to take another glance at the sleeping child.
Very beautiful she looked as she lay, the fair, golden hair curling over
her head and falling round her neck. Her lips were slightly parted, and,
as if conscious of Elsie's approach, she muttered the word "fader."
Elsie patted her, and turned once more to the little cradle where lay
her infant. The child was awake and crying, and the mother stooped and
took her up, and sat down with her in her arms. A look of anxiety and
sadness crossed the mother's face when she observed that although she
flashed the little lamp in the baby's face her eyes never turned to the
light.
For some time the terrible fear had been rising in her head that her
little Anna was blind. She had mentioned this to her husband, but he had
laughed at her, and said babies of that age never took much notice of
anything; but that was three weeks ago, and still, though the eyes
looked bright, and the child was intelligent, the eyes never followed
the light, nor looked up into the mother's face.
The fear was now becoming certainty. Oh, if only she could make sure,
see some doctors, and find out if nothing could be done for her darling!
A blind child! How could they support her, how provide for the wants of
one who could never help herself?
Poor mother! her heart sank within her, for she knew nothing of the One
who has said, "Cast all your cares upon me, for I care for you."
Now as she gazed at the child she became more than ever convinced that
that strange trial had fallen upon her. And to add to this new
difficulty, how could she undertake the charge and keeping of this
stranger so wonderfully brought to their door?
Elsie, although no Christian, had a true, loving woman's heart beating
within her, and putting from her the very idea of sending away the lost
child, she said to herself, "The little that a child like that will take
will not add much to the day's expense; and even if it did, Elsie
Hoerstel is not the woman to cast out the forlorn child." Oh, the pity of
it that she did not know the words of Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye did
it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me;" and
again, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth
me." But these words had never yet reached her ears, and as yet it was
only the instincts of a true God-created heart that led her to
compassionate and care for the child lost in the forest.
Taking the babe in her arms, she slipped into bed and soon fell asleep.