e roam over
the assembly of Brothers and Sisters, many of whom were unknown to him;
indeed, the large majority were strange, yet he held each and all dear,
as forming a part of his home surroundings. As he passed up the aisle,
between the two elders who conducted him, the door of the chapel
opened, and a tardy member entered. It was Brother Jonathan Fricke.
His manner was even humbler than usual, and his eyes wandered
restlessly around: perhaps he had heard of Brother Mauer's arrival, and
was looking for him. In the centre of the aisle, which was filled with
people, he met the three men. Jonathan's glance fell on the tall form
of his old friend; he stretched out his hand, and said in a low voice:

"Do the dead rise, Brother Michael?"

Mauer shrank back at the words; and as he recognized the speaker he
grew deathly pale, his eyes dilated with an expression of horror, and
he staggered forward.

"You here?" he asked hoarsely, and fell to the ground.

A general confusion ensued. It seemed but natural that the numerous
greetings should have exhausted the over-weary traveller; and then the
reunion with his old friend--it really had been too much for his
strength, and the general feeling of sympathy grew deeper.

As they carried him away Carmen, followed to his room; and after long,
untiring efforts the old man at last began to revive. Carmen begged
that she might be left alone with him, so that when he came fully to
himself he might be undisturbed and see no one but her, at the same
time declining all offers of medical assistance from Brother Jonathan.

The girl seated herself by the bedside; and when her father opened his
eyes, she noticed he looked anxiously around and then whispered:

"Child, who was that I last saw in the chapel and who spoke to me?"

"Do not trouble yourself, dear father. It was only your old friend,
Jonathan Fricke," replied Carmen, soothingly, holding his hand in hers.
She felt a shiver run through him as she mentioned the name.

"I did not know that he was here," he said with a groan.

"Can I help you in any way, dear father?" his daughter asked. "Are you
in pain?"

He shook his head in reply, and lay quite still, with closed eyes.
After a long time he looked again at Carmen in a troubled, sorrowful
way, and sighed deeply. "Tell me about him," he murmured. "I thought
he was still in Bethlehem, in America; how came he here, and how long
has he been among you?"

She told him ever