IN DRINGENSTADT.
"Sing them over again to me,
Wonderful words of love."
Three years had passed. Summer had come round again. Fresh green leaves
quivered on the trees of the Forest, though the pines still wore their
dark clothing. The song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks
murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound.
In the Forest it was cool even at noontide, but in Dringenstadt the heat
was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even
indoors was excessive.
In a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy
of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. It was an
English one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a
language she was altogether familiar with. The book evidently recalled
memories of the past. Every now and then she paused in her reading, and
the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered
from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other
days.
Sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a
beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed.
The lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her
appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and
scenes.
"Frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend
found in the Forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your
mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?"
"No, dear Miss Drechsler, I do not remember her ever speaking of any
companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they
lived in a beautiful house in England, somewhere in the country; and
whenever she spoke of her mother she used to cry, and then she would
kiss me, and wish she could show me to her, for she knew she would love
me, and I am sure it was to her that my father was taking me when he
died. See, here is my little brown Bible which her mother gave to her
and she gave to me."
Miss Drechsler took the Bible in her hand, and examined the writing, and
noted the name "Hilda;" but neither of them seemed to recall any special
person to her memory.
"Strange," she said to herself; "and yet that child's face reminds me
vividly of some one whom I saw when I was in England some years ago,
when living as governess to the Hon. Evelyn Warden, and I always connect
it with some fine music which I heard at that time."
Then changing the subject, she said abruptly, "Frida dear, bring your
violin and let me hear how far you are prepared for your master
to-morrow."
Miss Drechsler, true to her promise to the German pastor, had kept a
look-out on the child known as "the wood-cutters' pet," who lived in the
little hut in the Black Forest. From the time Pastor Langen had left,
she had her often living with herself for days at a time at
Dringenstadt, and was conducting her education; but as she often had to
leave that town for months, Frida still had her home great part of the
year with the Hoerstels in the Forest. At the time we write of, Miss
Drechsler had returned to her little German home, and Frida, who was
once more living with her, was getting, at her expense, lessons in
violin-playing. She bid fair to become an expert in the art which she
dearly loved. She was much missed by the kind people in the Forest
amongst whom she had lived so long. Just as, at Miss Drechsler's
request, she had produced her violin and begun to play on it, a servant
opened the door and said that a man from the Forest was desirous of
seeing Fraeulein Heinz. The girl at once put down her instrument and ran
to the door, where she found her friend Wilhelm awaiting her.
"Ah, Frida, canst come back with me to the Forest? There is sorrow
there. In one house Johann Schmidt lies nigh to death, caused by an
accident when felling a tree. He suffers much, and Gretchen is in sore
trouble. And the Volkmans have lost their little boy. You remember him,
Frida; he and our Hans used to play together. And our little Anna seems
pining away, and Elsie and all of them are crying out for you to come
back and comfort them with the words of your little book. Johann said
this morning, when his wife proposed sending for the priest, 'No,
Gretchen, no. I want no priest; but oh, I wish little Frida were here to
read to me from her brown book about Jesus Christ our great High Priest,
who takes away our sins, and is always praying for us.'"
"Oh, I remember," interrupted Frida. "I read to him once about Jesus
ever living 'to make intercession for us.' Yes, Wilhelm, I'll come with
you. I know Miss Drechsler will say I should go, for she often tells me
I really belong to the kind people in the Forest." And so saying, she
ran off to tell her story to her friend.
Miss Drechsler at once assented to her return to the Forest to give what
help she could to the people there, adding that she herself would come
up soon to visit them, and bring them any comforts necessary for them
such as could not be easily got by them. Ere they parted she and Frida
knelt together in prayer, and Miss Drechsler asked that God would use
the child as His messenger to the poor, sorrowing, suffering ones in the
Forest; after which she took Frida's Bible and put marks in at the
different passages which she thought would be suitable to the different
cases of the people that Wilhelm had spoken of.
It was late in the afternoon ere Wilhelm and Frida reached the hut of
Johann Schmidt, where he left the child for a while, whilst he went on
to the Volkmans to tell them of Frida's return, and that she hoped to
see them the next day. Gretchen met the girl with a cry of delight.
"_Ach!_ there she comes, our own little Fraeulein. What a pleasure it is
to see thee again, our woodland pet! And see, here is my Johann laid up
in bed, nearly killed by the falling of a tree."
The sick man raised himself as he heard the child's voice saying as she
entered, in reply to Gretchen's words, "Oh, I am sorry, so sorry! Why
did you not tell me sooner?" And in another moment she was sitting
beside Johann, speaking kind, comforting words to him. He stroked her
hair fondly, and answered her questions as well as he could; but there
was a far-away look in his eyes as if his thoughts were in some region
distant from the one he was living in now. After a few minutes he asked
eagerly,--
"Have you the little brown book with you now?"
"Yes, I have," was the reply. "Shall I read to you now, Johann? for
Wilhelm is to come for me soon."
"Yes, read, read," he said; "for I am weary, so weary."
Frida turned quickly to the eleventh chapter of Matthew, and read
distinctly in the German, which he could understand, and which she could
now speak also, the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
He stopped her there. "Read that again," he said. She complied, and then
he turned to her, saying, "And Jesus, the Son of God, said that? Will He
give it to me, thinkest thou?"
"Yes," she said, "He will; for He has promised to do it, and He never
breaks His word."
"Well, if that be so, kneel down, pretty one, and ask Him to give it me,
for I need it sorely."
Frida knelt, and in a few simple words besought the Saviour to give His
rest and peace to the suffering man.
"Thanks, little Frida," he said as she rose. "I believe that prayer will
be answered." And shutting his eyes he fell quietly asleep, and Frida
slipped out of the room and joined Wilhelm in the Forest.
"Is little Anna so very ill?" she queried as they walked.
"I fear she is," was the answer the father gave, with tears in his eyes.
"The mother thinks so also; though the child, bless her, is so good and
patient we hardly know whether she suffers or not. She just lies still
mostly on her bed now, and sings to herself little bits of hymns, or
speaks about the land far away, which she says you told her about, and
where she says she is going to see Jesus. Then her mother begins to cry;
but she also speaks about that bright land. 'Deed it puzzles me to know
where they have learned so much about it, unless it be from your little
brown book. And the child has often asked where Frida is. 'I want to
hear her sing again,' she says."
"O Wilhelm, why did you not come for me when she said that?"
"Well, you see, I had promised the pastor that I would let you visit
Miss Drechsler as often as possible, and then you were getting on so
nicely with your violin that we felt as if we had no right to call you
back to us. But see, here we are, and there is Hans looking out for us."
But Hans, instead of rushing to meet them as he usually did, ran back
hastily to his mother, calling out, "Here they come, here they come!"
"Oh, I am glad!" she said.--"Anna, dear Anna, you will hear Frida's
voice again."
The mother looked round with a smile, but moved not, for the dying child
lay in her arms. A moment longer, and Frida was beside her, her arms
round the blind child.
"Annchen, dear Annchen, speak to me," she entreated--"just one word, to
say you know me. It is Frida come home, and she will not leave you
again, but will tell you stories out of the little brown book."
A look of intelligence crossed the face of the blind child, and she
said,--
"Dear Frida, tell Annchen 'bout Jesus, and sing."
Frida, choking back her sobs, opened her Bible and read the story that
little Anna loved, of Jesus taking the children in His arms and blessing
them; then sang a hymn of the joys of heaven, where He is seen face to
face, and where there is "no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying,
neither is there any more death," and where His redeemed ones _see_ His
face.
The mother, almost blinded with tears, heard her child whisper, "'See
His face;' then Annchen will see Him too, won't she, Frida?"
"Yes, Annchen. There your eyes will be open, and you will be blind no
more."
As Frida said these words she heard one deep-drawn breath, one cry,
"Fader, Mutter, Jesus!" and the little one was gone into that land
where the first face she saw was that of her loving Saviour, whom
"having not seen she loved," and the beauties of that land which had
been afar off burst on her eyes, which were no longer blind.
Poor father! poor mother! look up; your child sees now, and will await
your coming to the golden gates.
Heartfelt tears were shed on earth by that death-bed, but there was a
song of great rejoicing in heaven over another ransomed soul entering
heaven, and also over another sinner entering the kingdom of God on
earth, as Wilhelm Hoerstel bent his knee by the bed where his dead child
lay, and in broken words asked the Saviour whom that child had gone to
see face to face to receive him as a poor sinner, and make him all he
ought to be. In after-years he would often say that it was the words
little Frida, the woodland child, had read and sung to his blind darling
that led him, as they had already led his wife, to the feet of Jesus.