ountains; but he died for us."

"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