was on her lip, and her
eyes, raised to heaven, beamed with holy fire. She stood as if in a
dream, and at first did not hear old Buschman ask her to read on. When
he repeated his request, she was startled, and turned her glance slowly
down from heaven upon the joyful crowd that surrounded her.

"What do you wish, father?" she asked.

The old shepherd arose, and, taking his cap from his gray head, said
solemnly, "You have read us of the victory, Anna Sophia; now read us of
those who gave their lives for it. Tell us of the dead."

"Yes, read us a list of the dead!" cried the others, uncovering their
heads respectfully.

Anna sought for the list, and read slowly the names of the fallen.
Their faces brightened more and more, none belonging to them were dead.
Suddenly Anna paused, and uttered a low cry, then looked at Father
Buschman with a terrified expression. Perhaps the old man understood
her, for he trembled a little, and his head fell upon his breast, but he
raised it proudly again. Looking almost commandingly at Anna, he said,

"Read on, my daughter."

But Anna could not read. The paper trembled in her hand, and her face
was pale as death.

"Read on," repeated the old man--"read on, I, your father, command you
to read!"

Anna sighed deeply. "I will obey," she said, and casting a glance of
inexpressible sorrow at the old man, two new names fell from her lips
and tears to consecrate them. "Anton Buschman, Frederick Buschman," and
then taking advantage of the breathless stillness, she added, "The two
brothers were the first to attack the enemy--they died the death of
heroes!" She ceased. The paper dropped from her trembling hands and fell
at the old man's feet.

The weeping eyes of the crowd were turned upon old Buschman. As if
crushed by the storm, he had staggered to the bench; he bowed his head
upon his breast that no one might see the expression of his face; his
trembling hands clasped on his knees, made a touching picture of silent
sorrow.

His son Henry, who had been standing with the others, stepped softly to
him, and kneeling down, put his arms around the old man's neck and spoke
to him tenderly.

The old man started up with terror--his glance turned from his son to
the crowd, and met everywhere sympathizing and troubled faces. "Well,"
he asked, in a hard, rough voice, "why do you weep? Did you not hear
that my sons died the death of heroes? Have they not fallen for their
country and their king? It