tive leaders and fought grimly to the death.

At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had
remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been
closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony.
The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front
was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore
straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week
longer help would come.

A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear
the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the
town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter
to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So
to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked
out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.

His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he
was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good
people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a
quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl
Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.

Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day
was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take
their places in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman
had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with
him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of
his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral,
and the Town Hall was not much further away.

'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service
at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'

He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment,
and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying,
'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of
work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we
wait quietly for it.'

Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be
true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His
life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes
he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful
business, and lately he had