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We pass now in spirit over a period of three decades and return to the man with whom we were occupied at the beginning of our tale.  We left him in the arbor of his little garden.  The bells of St. George’s called the dwellers of the town to morning service; they sounded also in the garden behind the house with the green shutters.  There he sits every Sunday at this time.  When the bells call to afternoon service he is seen wending his way to church with his silver-headed cane in his hand.  Nobody sees the old gentleman without greeting him with reverence.  It has been nearly thirty years, but there are still people who lived through that remarkable night.  They can tell those who do not know what the man with the silver-headed cane did for the town on that night.  And to what he set on foot the next day the stones themselves bear witness.  Just outside of the town, on the road to Brambach, not far from the rifle-range there rises a stately building with a pleasant garden.  It is the new town hospital.  Every stranger who goes to it learns that its conception originated with Herr Nettenmair.  He also has to listen to the entire story of that night, and of Herr Nettenmair’s brave deed, who was then a young man; and how a collection was taken up for him, and how he gave this money to the town as a nucleus for the hospital, and how rich citizens, inspired by his example, donated and bequeathed until, after a number of years, an additional contribution from the town completed the sum necessary for the erection of the building.

When Herr Nettenmair returns from church he spends the rest of Sunday in his little room where he still lives; or he takes a walk to the slate quarry, which now belongs to him, or rather to his nephews.  The fulfilment of the vow which he made to himself has continued to be the aim of his life.  Everything that he has done he has done for his brother’s family, he has considered himself only the administrator.  If he happens to see a pretty little girl anywhere, he thinks of dear little dead Annie.  His memory is as conscientious as he himself, for he always calls the child to him, strokes her hair, and it would be strange indeed if he did not find in the pocket of his blue coat something or other wrapped up in nice clean paper which he produces to bring forth a word of thanks from the little mouth.  The child, however, cannot enjoy herself to the full until he has gone, for, in spite of his friendliness, his tall figure has something so grave and solemn about it that her joy is usually swallowed up in respect.  During the week Herr Nettenmair sits over his books and letters, or superintends the packing and unpacking, the chipping and sorting of the slate.  Punctually at twelve o’clock he has his dinner in his room, punctually at six his evening meal; this takes a quarter of an hour.  Then, rubbing his hand gently over the old sofa, he rises and, if it is summer time, exercises