val to celebrate their safe return.

"We shall come," said the men, with earnest, solemn voices. "We will
be there," said the mothers, gazing with tearful eyes at the triumphant
faces of their sons. The young maidens whom the boys invited to dance,
passed them in silence.

Old Buschman, alone, did not answer his son's invitation, nor did he
follow the rest to the village, but turned to the side of the churchyard
where his wife was buried. He seated himself upon her grave, and
murmured a few words with trembling lips, raising his face toward
heaven. A sob escaped him every now and then, and the tears rolled
slowly from his eyes. From time to time he wrung his hands, as if
bewailing his sorrow to God and beseeching His mercy, then brushed away
his tears--angry with himself for being so moved.

He sat there a long, long time, struggling with his grief--alone with
God and his shame. Approaching steps aroused him; he looked up. The
village justice stood before him, and gazed at him with a melancholy
smile.

"I knew I would find you here, Father Buschman, and I came for you. The
time is come; we are all assembled on the square awaiting you."

"I come!" said the old man, as he stood up resolutely, giving a last
loving farewell glance at his wife's grave.

The old man no longer needed his friend's arm to support him, his steps
were firm; his form manly and erect, his venerable countenance glowed
with energy.

By the side of the village justice he walked to the square, under the
great linden. There every thing looked bright and gay. The boys had
taken advantage of the dinner hour to make worthy preparations for their
festival. They had brought fresh evergreens from the woods, and had
made wreaths and festooned them from tree to tree around the square. The
ground was covered prettily with flowers and leaves, and the bench under
the tree was decorated with a wreath of field-flowers.

On one side of the square stood several tables covered with bottles of
wine and beer and cake and bread; not far from the tables was a throne
adorned with flowers, where sat the fiddler, gazing proudly around him,
like a king who knows he is the crowning point of the feast.

It certainly had been a long time since the merry sound of the fiddle
had been heard in the village of Brunen. The throne was surrounded by
little boys and girls listening with wondering delight at the gay music.
But the grown girls stood afar off and did not look even o