y son!"
His heart warmed within him, all his bitterness disappeared, and the
waves seemed to rock him and the burden in his arms as in a cradle. The
picture of his mother floated before his vision, that of his child, and
of his beautiful work, the great indestructible cathedral, which he had
erected to the honour of God. He reflected what sweet joy each new spring
had brought him, how he had been blessed in his work, what exquisite
delight he derived from all that was beautiful in the world. No, no, no.
Of all the men on this earth, he, the child destined to misfortune, was
the happiest. Overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude, he returned his
wife's kiss. Saved! She was saved! He felt firm ground beneath his feet;
he lifted her on high; but, just as he laid her in the strong arms that
reached down from the cliff to receive her, a high wave caught him and
dragged him back into the deep, and the waters closed over him.

The next morning a fisherman found his body. George's wife and mother
were saved. The wise men of the land said that the ill-starred child had
perished, as they had foreseen, and the people echoed their words.

In the mausoleum of the Greylocks only two places remained empty, and
these had to be kept for Wendelin the Lucky and his queen, consequently
the ill-omened son might not even rest in the grave of his fathers, and
George was buried on a green hillside, whence there was a beautiful view
of the lake and distant landscape.

King Wendelin the Lucky and his wife lived to a good old age. After the
king became childish, he ceased to groan and whimper in the night, as he
had formerly done. When he died, he was interred next to Queen Isabella,
in the coldest corner of the marble mausoleum, and no ray of sun ever
rested on his stone sarcophagus. His son, Wendelin XVII., visited his
father's grave once a year, on All Saints' Day, and laid a dry wreath of
immortelles on the lid of the coffin.

George's resting-place was surrounded by bushes and flowers. His mother
and wife and child visited it and cared for it. When the spring came,
nightingales, redbreasts, finches and thrushes without number sang their
merry notes above the head of the unfortunate one who lay there. His son
George grew to be the pride of his mother, and became a noble prince in
beautiful Italy. Centuries have passed since then, yet to-day
enthusiastic artists still make pilgrimages to the hillside where the sun
shines so brightly, to lay wr