f the wood Karl halted. A troop of
men were there assembled--the forester, the farmer, the shepherd, the
Kunau smith, with a few of his neighbors, and the son of the Neudorf
bailiff.

Anton joyfully sprang down and greeted them once more.

"My father sends me to bid you farewell," said the bailiff's son. "His
wounds are healing, but he can not leave his room." And the Kunau smith
shouted out as a last farewell, "Greet our countrymen at home for me,
and say that they must never forget us!"

Silently, as on the day of his arrival, Anton sat by the side of his
faithful Karl. He was free--free from the spell that had lured him
hither--free from many a prejudice; but while as free, he was as poor as
a bird of the air. He had now to begin life over again. Whether the past
year had made him stronger or weaker remained to be proved. On the
whole, however, he did not regret what he had done. He had had, gains as
well as losses; he had helped to found a new German colony; he had
opened out the path to a happy future for those he loved; he felt
himself more mature, more experienced, more settled; and so he looked
beyond the heads of the horses which were carrying him homeward, and
said to himself, "Onward! I am free, and my way is now clear."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

It is evening. Sabine stands in her treasure-chamber before the open
cupboards, arranging the newly-washed table-linen, and again tying
rose-colored tickets on the different sets. Of course, she knew nothing
and guessed nothing. Her white damask shines to-day like silver; the
cut-glass cover, which she lifts from the old family goblet, rings
cheerily as a bell, and the vibrations thrill through the woodwork of
the great presses. All the painted heads on the china cups look
singularly cheerful to-day. Doctor Martin Luther and the sorcerer Faust
positively laugh. Even Goethe smiles, and it is impossible to say how
amused old Fritz appears. Yet Sabine, the sagacious mistress of the
house, knows not what these know. Or does she guess it? Hark! she sings.
A merry tune has not passed her lips for long; but to-day her heart is
light, and as she looks at the shining display of glass and damask,
something of their brightness seems to fall upon her, and, low as the
notes of the wood-bird, a song of her childhood sounds through the
little room. And from the cupboard she suddenly moves to the window,
where her mother's picture hangs over the arm-chair, and she looks
cheerfu