dozen years; then the big Conrad, what with drink and worry, fell
ill--so ill, that for a long while he lay close to the open jaws of
Death.

No one ever knew--though several people quite accurately guessed--why
the wolf did not fairly get into the house during that dismal time. It
is certain that when Conrad arose from his bed at last, a thin remnant
of his former bigness, there were few high-priced birds left in Andreas
Stoffel's little shop, where there had been a score or more when
his sickness began. And, possibly, it was something more than a mere
coincidence that nearly all of the few which remained were sold about
the time that Conrad started again, in a very humble way, his business
of sausage-making.

But if Andreas did thus sacrifice his birds for Christine's good, he did
not grudge the sacrifice; for upon the big Conrad poverty and sickness
had exercised a chastening and most wholesome influence. He got up out
of his bed a changed man; and the change, morally at least, was greatly
for the better. Physically the result was less salutary; indeed, he
never quite recovered from his sharp attack; and three or four years
later, just as his business was getting into good shape again, he
sickened suddenly, and then promptly paid to nature the debt that all
men owe, and that his partial return to health had but a little time
delayed.

But Christine was not left desolate in the world, for in the last year
of her husband's life the strong yearning that so possessed her had been
satisfied, and she was the mother of a baby girl. Andreas, claiming the
fulfilment of the promise made so long before, had stood godfather to
the little Rosa--for so, because of her fresh rosiness, was she named;
and there was a strange, sorrowful longing in his heart when, the rite
being ended, he came again to his lonely home and sat him down to be
comforted by the singing of his birds: for while the children of Alice
call Bartram father, there must be ever a weary weight of sadness in the
world.

Life had not given so much of happiness to Christine--though, possibly,
her happiness was equal to her deserts--that her hold upon life was a
very firm one; and although she tried, for the little Roschen's sake, to
put fresh strength into her grasp, the pressure of poverty and care and
sorrow all combined to make her loosen it. Gently, a little at a time,
her hold gave way. She knew what was coming, and so did Andreas. Once
or twice they spoke