ved in the smithy, Ulrich was no longer
satisfied with his idle life, and began with Ruth to look forward to and
discuss the future.

"The words: 'fortune,' 'fame,' 'power,'" he said once, "have deceived me;
but art! You don't know, Ruth, what art is! It does not bestow
everything, but a great deal, a great deal. Meister Moor was indeed a
teacher! I am too old to begin at the beginning once more. If it were not
for that. . . ."

"Well, Ulrich?"

"I should like to try painting again."

The girl exhorted him to take courage, and told his father of their
conversation. The smith put on his Sunday clothes and went to the
artist's house. The latter was in Brussels, but was expected home soon.

From this time, every third day, Adam donned his best clothes, which he
disliked to wear, and went to the artist's; but always in vain.

In the month of February the invalid was playing chess with Ruth,--she
had learned the game from the smith and Ulrich from her,--when Adam
entered the room, saying: "when the game is over, I wish to speak to you,
my son."

The young girl had the advantage, but instantly pushed the pieces
together and left the two alone.

She well knew what was passing in the father's mind, for the day before
he had brought all sorts of artist's materials, and told her to arrange
the little gable-room, with the large window facing towards the north,
and put the easel and colors there. They had only smiled at each other,
but they had long since learned to understand each other, even without
words.

"What is it?" asked Ulrich in surprise.

The smith then told him what he had provided and arranged, adding: "the
picture on the standard--you say you painted it yourself."

"Yes, father."

"It was your mother, exactly as she looked when. . . . She did not treat
either of us rightly--but she!--the Christian must forgive;--and as she
was your mother--why--I should like . . . perhaps it is not possible; but
if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she looked when
a young wife. . . ."

"I can, I will!" cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement. "Take me upstairs,
is the canvas ready?"

"In the frame, firmly in the frame! I am an old man, and you see, child,
I remember how wonderfully sweet your mother was; but I can never succeed
in recalling just how she looked then. I have tried, tried thousands and
thousands of times; at--Richtberg, here, everywhere--deep as was my
wrath!"

"You shall see her agai