“Where did you learn this, Franz?”

“From the Bible, sir.”

I saw it all; the Bible was the textbook he had studied.  It was this which had given him that rare expression of face, and the words so far above the condition of life indicated by the little hamlet where he lived.

There was no more time, for the sun was going down, and we must go with it; and rising, we began to make the descent.

The moon was full orbed before we reached the cottage.  I was weary beyond the power of utterance.

“If you would prefer to stop here, we can give you a comfortable bed,” said Franz, “and Annette will have something to eat.  I told her that there was a possibility that you would like to remain.”

It was the very thing I wanted, and placing my pole by the side of Franz’s in the little shed from which Annette had brought it in the morning, I entered the cottage.

All was still and quiet.  It seemed Annette had not heard us; for as the door was opened, she rose from the bedside, where she had been kneeling, and springing lightly to Franz hid her little tear-wet face in his bosom.  She did not perceive me, and for a moment there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sick man.

“How has he been, Annette?” and Franz unclasped his sister’s arm.

“He did not say much till the sun was nearly down, then he began to ask for you, and at last I read him to sleep.”

“Can you give us something to eat, Annette? you see I have brought the stranger with me.”

She turned with such an air of modesty, dropping a courtesy so very humbly, and yet with a blending of maidenly dignity, that I felt instinctively to bow to the womanhood before me, quaint and picturesque as it was in its black dress, white sleeves, and wooden-heeled shoes.

Giving one glance at the sleeper, Annette slipped out at a side-door; while Franz rising from his straight-backed chair, and dropping on his knees beside the bed, pressed his lips to the furrowed brow.  The action seemed to recall the sick man, his breathing was not so heavy and his eyes partly opened.

“Father, you are not sleeping easily; let me turn you on your pillow.”  The voice was low and tender, and the action gentle as a woman’s.  “Franz!” and the withered hand stroked his light curls.  “Franz!” there was nothing more; but oh, what a world of love, of restored confidence! the stiffening tongue lingered fondly on each letter.

The room was large, and there was a general air of neatness; but there was a lack of comforts such as we are accustomed to see at home.  There was no lamp in the room; only on the hearth a pine-knot nearly spent, sending out now a bright light, then wavering, bringing out shadows on the wall, and permitting us to catch glimpses of the outdoor radiance, the silvery effulgence of the rocks and hills.

The sick man slept, and now his breathing was as sweet as an infant’s.  I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor, his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of silver falling over the coarse white pillow.