till more pleasing
light, for it was plainly to be seen that vanity and ambition had
played no part in it.

* * * * *

We pass now in spirit over a period of three decades and return to the
man with whom we were occupied at the beginning of our tale. We left
him in the arbor of his little garden. The bells of St. George's
called the dwellers of the town to morning service; they sounded also
in the garden behind the house with the green shutters. There he sits
every Sunday at this time. When the bells call to afternoon service he
is seen wending his way to church with his silver-headed cane in his
hand. Nobody sees the old gentleman without greeting him with
reverence. It has been nearly thirty years, but there are still people
who lived through that remarkable night. They can tell those who do
not know what the man with the silver-headed cane did for the town on
that night. And to what he set on foot the next day the stones
themselves bear witness. Just outside of the town, on the road to
Brambach, not far from the rifle-range there rises a stately building
with a pleasant garden. It is the new town hospital. Every stranger
who goes to it learns that its conception originated with Herr
Nettenmair. He also has to listen to the entire story of that night,
and of Herr Nettenmair's brave deed, who was then a young man; and how
a collection was taken up for him, and how he gave this money to the
town as a nucleus for the hospital, and how rich citizens, inspired by
his example, donated and bequeathed until, after a number of years, an
additional contribution from the town completed the sum necessary for
the erection of the building.

When Herr Nettenmair returns from church he spends the rest of Sunday
in his little room where he still lives; or he takes a walk to the
slate quarry, which now belongs to him, or rather to his nephews. The
fulfilment of the vow which he made to himself has continued to be the
aim of his life. Everything that he has done he has done for his
brother's family, he has considered himself only the administrator. If
he happens to see a pretty little girl anywhere, he thinks of dear
little dead Annie. His memory is as conscientious as he himself, for
he always calls the child to him, strokes her hair, and it would be
strange indeed if he did not find in the pocket of his blue coat
something or other wrapped up in nice clean paper which he produces to
bring forth a wor