He
grew rich. It was not a great while before he was able to build a
large factory in the neighborhood of the city.

The little pedler of dust sticks was now one of the richest men in
Hamburg. He had four hundred men in his employ, had a large house in
town, and another in the country. He was thus able to indulge his
love for nature. After a hard day's work, he could come home and
enjoy the beautiful sunset, and look at the moon and stars in the
evening, and hear the nightingale sing, and join with his Agatha in
the song of praise to the Giver of all good things.

Henry did not, because he was rich, lead a lazy and selfish life. He
still worked with his own hands, and thus taught his workmen
himself, and made their work more easy and agreeable by his presence
as well as by his instructions. He was continually making
improvements in his business, inventing new things, and so keeping
up his reputation. He exported large quantities of the articles made
in his factory. Every year his business grew larger, and he gained
still higher reputation.

Henry's fellow-citizens offered him some of the highest offices of
honor and profit which the city had to bestow; but he refused them.
The only ones he accepted were those that gave no pay. He was one of
the overseers of the poor, and was always one of the first to aid,
in any way he could, plans for the benefit of his suffering
fellow-beings. He gave money himself generously, but was very anxious
not to have his charities made public.

He was one of the directors of the first railroad from Hamburg.

He engaged all his workmen with reference to their character as well
as their capacity, and no one of them ever left him. He was their
best benefactor and friend.

So lived this excellent man, as happy as he was good and useful, for
sixteen years with his dear wife; they had seven living children;
but, as I before told you, she had very delicate health, and it was
the will of God that these two loving hearts should be separated in
this world, as we hope, to meet in heaven to part no more. After
sixteen years of perfect love and joy, he parted with his dear
Agatha.

Henry bore his sorrow meekly and patiently. He did not speak, he
could not weep; but life was never again the same thing to him; he
never parted for a moment with the memory of his loving and
dearly-beloved wife. He was then only thirty-five years old, but he
never married again; and when urged to take another wife,