Chapter III: Part 3

"And, it is to be hoped, still better pleased to see us," said the old man, "when he hears that we have come to live near him. I am not anxious about you, for you have learnt to work and to be useful; besides, town people generally prefer a servant-girl from the country. As to myself, I am sure God will not let me want; and when I have Christlieb again near me, I will fast gladly."

The young gentleman named Balduin now drew in his head from the window, and sat down at the table beside the others. He was seated with his back to the two strangers, yet in a moment they both recognised him, and almost screamed for joy. Our friend Kummas motioned with his hand to his companion to be quiet; and wishing to give, as he thought, his dear Christlieb a pleasant surprise, he advanced on tiptoe towards the table, giving the others a hint to say nothing, and suddenly placed his hard hands over the eyes of the sullen Balduin, saying in a feigned voice, "Who am I?"

"No nonsense!" cried Balduin, seeking to free his face from its unwelcome covering. But Kummas held his hands firm as a vice, repeating in tones trembling with pleasure, "Who is it?" The supposed Christlieb, in a passion, tore away the hands of the old man from his face, and sprang from his seat. "What do you mean by this impertinence?" asked Balduin enraged, while Kummas took hold of him and said, "It is your foster-father, dear Christlieb; and here is Malchen,"----

"And your starling, too!" continued the young girl, weeping with joy.

The three young idlers at this broke out into a loud scornful laugh.

"Brother dear, we congratulate you on your new relations, not forgetting the starling. Ha! ha! ha!"

Balduin drove the old man from him with violence, and paid no heed to Malchen. "You vagabonds," he cried, "you will pay dearly for your insolent jest!"

Kummas stood petrified; he raised his arms, and then let them fall down powerless. At length he found strength to say, "Christlieb! are we really so much changed that you do not know us? I am Kummas, this is Malchen, whose grandfather is dead, and we are going to the town in which you live."

"Now I hope you understand!" again shouted Balduin's rude companions. "Such a father is not found every day on the street, neither such a smart young peasant girl."

Balduin trembled with passion. "You must have escaped from Bedlam!" he cried; "away with you! You will get nothing from me!"

The old man could scarcely believe his ears. "No, it is impossible," he said to himself, "that within the short space of one year an angel could be thus changed into a demon. Christlieb!" he continued, "dissemble no longer; you are breaking my heart with your jokes. I have not deserved this treatment; but I need not speak of what I have done for you, as you have always gratefully acknowledged it."

Instead of answering, Balduin paid the reckoning, and left the inn with his noisy companions, leaving Kummas and Malchen behind, who both stood as if rooted to the spot.

A long pause ensued. "Is he really gone?" asked Kummas, scarcely able to speak.

"Quite gone!" Malchen was only able to answer by a sorrowful shake of the head.

"He has denied us, Malchen!" said the old man. "He is in prosperity, as you may see by his dress and well-filled purse. He has been ashamed of us before the other scholars. Alas! alas! I was not ashamed, for his sake, to become like an old nurse." Kummas laid down his head and wept bitterly. "See," he continued after a time, "how soon our soap bubbles have burst! Now we may return the way we came to our old home in the village. You will be able to get something to do; perhaps to herd the cows or the geese; and I---- will find a grave. The ingratitude of my child will be my winding-sheet! What could I now do with a violin? Never again shall I handle the bow, and I will burn the instrument as I did the violincello in which---- Christlieb was cradled." He again laid his grey head on the table, which became wet with his burning tears.

Malchen sprang up in haste. "Father! father!" she cried, "look at the starling." The poor bird lay with its breast bruised flat, close to the table where the young men had been drinking. His supposed master had accidentally put his foot on it when he had jumped up in rage at the old man.

"Father!" said Malchen, weeping, and holding the poor little thing by its legs, "the starling is dead!"

Kummas looked up. "It has been treated like me," he said with indifference. "The starling is only a senseless bird; but me has my child killed. Oh! that I, too, were dead!"

*CHAPTER XII.*

*THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY.*

Some time elapsed before Kummas found himself able to resume his journey. The bread and cheese remained untouched, which, however, Malchen put into her basket; and the starling, yet warm, she again placed in her bag. They went a long way without speaking; at length Kummas broke the silence--"I now believe," said he, "that it was Christlieb who destroyed your grandfather's nets! Who could have thought him such a liar, unless to-day we had had the most convincing proof of it! So it would appear there is no knowing people; not even if we do eat a bushel of salt with them! Who is to be trusted?"

"Trust me," said Malchen confidently.

"You!" replied Kummas, smiling in bitterness of feeling. "Why, I would have built houses on Christlieb,"----

"And on me too, father, and bridges into the bargain," continued Malchen. "You must not take it amiss if I say that perhaps you have been too hasty in turning back. The wine may have affected Christlieb; and if he had been alone he might have spoken differently."

"'Drunken words, true words,' says the proverb," answered Kummas; "and had I been a king, and Christlieb only a cowherd, would I have been ashamed of him? His comrades, the young players, are no better than we are! Am I not a musician as well as they? If Christlieb is already so proud, what will he be when he becomes a Paganini? It would have been my greatest joy if I could have taken my place behind him and said,--See, I took this Paganini out of a manger, and brought him up in a violincello!"

"He will come to his senses again," whispered Malchen, "when he has had his own way for a time."

"No, no; he must be a demon to have acted as he has done," replied the much injured Kummas.

"Don't speak in this wicked way, father!" rejoined the young girl; "have you no longer a spark of love for your Christlieb?"

The old man stood still, strove with his feelings for a few minutes, and then said more mildly, "God forgive me! I am too severe; and yet I mean it not in earnest. Yes, Malchen, I would joyfully give up my life, if by so doing I could make Christlieb what he was, although he has broken my heart."

They soon came to the town where they had rested the previous night, and which was now all bustle and confusion,--it being the day of the yearly fair. With difficulty the wanderers pressed through the moving crowd. As they turned the corner of a street close to the market-place, they met a man and his wife, the former blind, and playing on a pipe; the latter, whose countenance was the colour of copper and much swollen, was playing on a barrel organ, accompanying it with her screeching voice.

Kummas started at the sight of them. "Look!" he said to Malchen, "that miserable pair might have been sitting comfortably in a warm house had they acted properly. The blind man was the landlord of a small inn in the village of Toumern, where I often used to play. His wife drank up everything, and brought herself and her husband to begging. They are called Hicup."

While Malchen was looking at the man and woman a scene occurred, not at all unusual in such places and at such times. A rather aged woman, carrying on her bent back a small raree-show, pushed her way into the midst of the throng, where the two wretched musicians had taken up their quarters; and here, by the assistance of a companion who was along with her, the show was lifted from her back, and arranged for the benefit of the idle and curious passers by. This attracted the notice of dame Hicup, who, seeing her domain invaded, began most furiously to abuse the woman, when a serious quarrel took place. In the progress of the squabble our former hostess of the nether inn was somehow or the other enlightened in a way about her rival, which quite changed the character of her abusive epithets. In order to be the more able for her work, dame Hicup left her tambourine on the top of the organ, and advanced to the show-woman with arms a-kimbo. "So you have given up the crockery and stoneware trade!" she shouted to her antagonist in the fine arts. "Have you not another pair of brats to give me? I can tell you where one of the two is which you left with me fifteen years since. He is now a beer-fiddler, and may help you to earn your bread. He can play while you exhibit your trumpery pictures. Bless me! is that you, Kummas? I will now confess that I put your Christlieb in the manger at the door of the inn, from which you took him out and carried him home. If I had known that you were so fond of children, I would have given you the other young one too, his brother. They were as like as two drops of water. You may thank this woman for your foundling, and ask her where she got them. It was easy to be seen they were not her own, the thief that she is! Oh, you child-stealer!" she shouted to the woman with the show, who turned pale, and quickly disappeared, leaving the field to her victorious enemy. Seeing this, dame Hicup redoubled her abuse and her scolding; and her shouting soon collected a mob, from the midst of which Kummas and Malchen could scarcely make their way out, as they thought they had heard enough to enable them to regulate their future movements.

When Kummas had recovered from the surprise which the conversation of the woman had caused, he turned to Malchen and said, "Did you hear, Malchen, that Christlieb had a brother who was his very counterpart? Might the gay-looking youngster we saw this morning not have been he, while the real Christlieb is still in the tower? My Christlieb had no mole on his left temple, and I think that jackanapes had."

"Now," replied Malchen, "there can be no doubt as to the person who let the birds of my grandfather escape, and destroyed the nets."

"Come, then, let us retrace our steps," said Kummas, in a more cheerful voice. "It is fortunate we were no further away. I would not have missed the hearing of this quarrel for all the treasures in the world." In spite of weariness, Kummas stepped briskly on, while Malchen skipped merrily after him. Even the dead starling was for the moment forgotten.

The quarrel of the two women had not been without important results. The magistrates had thought it incumbent on them to interfere, and both vagrants were taken to prison. In the course of evidence the truth was not, however, altogether brought out, as the old woman stoutly maintained the children to be those of her daughter, who had been long dead; but confessed that she had left them in the house of dame Hicup. The further examination of the prisoners was therefore deferred until various inquiries had been instituted, and notices of the case put into all the public papers. Meanwhile Christlieb lay ill in the house of the director of the police at the capital, whose owner, in company with his son's tutor, Mr. Werter, was searching for the runaway Balduin. Kummas, followed by Malchen, was making the best of his way towards the small town in which dwelt the leader of the town-band, where Christlieb was expected to be found.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*THE BAD RECEPTION.*

Balduin and his companions had reached the same town. This happened the very day after Christlieb had been taken to the capital, towards which he had been driven by the memorable event of the breaking up of the ice. The river was still here and there covered with huge pieces of ice, while it had far overflowed its banks. The young adventurers, with many others, stood on the edge of the stream looking at its singular appearance.

"There must be a beautiful view from the tower up there," thought Balduin, as he pointed to poor Christlieb's late abode. "Who will come with me up the long staircase, and see what is to be seen?"

"As we have nothing better to do, we may as well all accompany you," said one of his companions; and they quickly walked in the direction of the cathedral. They passed a baker's shop on their way, which another of them perceiving, exclaimed, "I am sure the view will be seen to much more advantage if we are provided with some cakes or biscuits. Give me the rest of your money, Balduin; and if you will go up and find the best place for us to have a view from, we will follow directly with something nice to eat, and a small bottle of cordial." He gave the other two youths a most significant wink, which they were at no loss to comprehend. Balduin completely emptied his now scanty purse, gave all he had to his faithless friends, and began to ascend the steps of the tower.

"Now, my good fellows, it is high time for us to beat a retreat!" shouted the false friend to whom Balduin had given the money. "We must go back to our tutors and make them believe that we have repented of our doings, and left our leader Balduin, in order not to be corrupted by his wicked society. As I said to-day already, Balduin shall be our scape-goat; we have had a merry life this last fortnight at his expense."

The others agreed; purchased some cakes to eat on the road, and at once began their homeward journey.

Almost breathless, Balduin reached the top of the steps, and rung the bell at the shut door of the _stadt-musikus_, which was opened to him by the servant girl. "Bless me!" she exclaimed in joyful surprise, "is that you, Master Christlieb? Where have you come from? And where have you got the fine clothes? I scarce would have known you, you are so changed. What will the master and mistress say, who have been in such a way about their kettledrums? We were afraid that, last night, you had been on the ice when it broke up so suddenly, and that you were drowned."

Balduin looked very stupid at this unexpected harangue. "I am surely bewitched!" he muttered to himself. He turned round to descend the steps, not in the best humour, when he was prevented by the appearance of Mr. Dilling, Mrs. Dilling, and all the scholars, who had heard the exclamation of the servant, and came out to see Christlieb, and to hear what happened to him.

"Where have you the kettledrums?" asked the town musician in a voice of thunder, looking very suspiciously at Balduin's fine dress. "Sold, pawned, made away with, I have no doubt!" seizing as he said this, the petrified Balduin by the neck.

"Where are the drums?" screamed the angry lady, shaking her clenched hand in his face.

"Where are the drums?" echoed the malicious boys, delighted at the embarrassment and distress of their companion.

"The drums!" stammered out Balduin, his lips quivering with passion.--"What do I----?"

"Yes, the drums! the drums!" bellowed out Mr. Dilling, accompanying his words with blows and pinches of the ear. "I will have my drums, which cost thirty-six dollars, and twenty groschens. I say, where are they? Where have you got these fine clothes? Are not my drums pawned for them?"

"Let the boy speak, Mr. Dilling," said Rupel, gently.--"He may be quite innocent. In consequence of the breaking up of the ice, he perhaps was prevented crossing the river last night, and had to walk all the way to the capital to cross the bridge; then to come here; and how could he carry the heavy drums all that long way? Most likely he has left them at the inn where the concert was."

"But where has he got the fine clothes?" said Mr. Dilling in a less angry tone.

"That I know not," answered Rupel; "Christlieb himself will be able to explain it all, I am sure; only let him speak."

"Where are my drums?" asked now Mr. Dilling in a composed voice.--"Speak, and tell me where you got these fine clothes!"

"These clothes are my own property," replied Balduin haughtily; "and as for your drums, I know nothing about them."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the _stadt-musikus_, more enraged than ever, flew at the unfortunate speaker, and began to beat him without mercy. In vain poor Balduin attempted to speak, in vain he tried to defend himself. Even Rupel's remonstrances were not listened to in the midst of the uproar.

Such treatment had the over-indulged Balduin never before received. He was stunned, stupified, and, for the first time in his life, afraid. Whenever he opened his lips to offer some explanation, he was stopped by Mr. Dilling thundering out, "Silence, sir!" and raising his hand to give him another blow. Balduin anxiously awaited the arrival of his three companions, in the hope that they would extricate him from his unpleasant situation; but poor Balduin waited in vain. He seated himself in a corner of the room, weeping bitterly from pain and anger, while the enraged master gave vent to the remainder of his wrath in scolding words.--"I would have the rascal arrested," he continued, after a volley of abusive epithets; "did I not need him to-day; indeed I cannot do without him at the concert which is to take place in the town, and at which he is to play the oboe. Come along, we have no time to lose; evening will soon be here, and as yet we have no rehearsal; all on account of that worthless fellow. Make haste!"

The music-stands were immediately set up, the instruments in the hands of the pupils, and the miserable Balduin shown where he was to take his place. When the oboe was thrust into his hand by one of the boys, he exclaimed, "But, indeed, I cannot----"

"Is he again daring to speak?" cried Mr. Dilling, taking hold of a stick, and threatening to strike him.--"You are there, sir, to blow, and not to reason."

In despair, Balduin took the instrument, and, after a few unsuccessful attempts, raised the mouthpiece of the oboe to his lips, and placed himself before the music-stand. The overture began, and Balduin blew as if his cheeks would crack; when suddenly an evil spirit seemed to have taken possession of the town musician. Purple with rage, he sprung from his place and struck the unfortunate player a dreadful blow on the head, saying, "What wretched playing is that?--do you mean to make a fool of me?"

A stream of blood from Balduin's mouth was the only answer; and the concert speedily came to an end; for Balduin fell senseless into the arms of Rupel, who came to his aid. From the violence of the blow the under end of the oboe had struck against the music-stand, while the sharp point had pierced Balduin's throat.

"That is all pretence," stammered the now pale-faced master.--"Wife, give the lad something to gargle his throat with. There is very little the matter with him."

Balduin, however, soon showed that something serious was the matter. He gasped for breath as if in agony, and fresh streams of blood gushed from his mouth. His companions now all looked very grave, and there was an end of their jests. Rupel assisted the unhappy youth to his bed, and then went away without saying where he was going. When Mr. Dilling (who was rather alarmed at what had happened) missed him, he cried out, "Where has Rupel gone to?--Does he mean to make a noise about the matter? Is he no better than an idle chatterbox? I tell you what it is," turning to the others, "if any of you dare to say one word of this in the town, I will knock your heads off. I am tormented enough to-day by the loss of an _oboist_. The good-for-nothing scoundrel;--he is the cause of the whole disturbance."

The door-bell now rang. "Who is there?" asked Dilling, half out of his wits, as he pushed aside the servant and went to open the door himself. "What do you want?" he asked, in no gentle voice, the two strangers who presented themselves. "My tower is no dove-cot, and there is nothing to be had here."

"We do not want anything, sir," answered the honest Kummas; "we only come to visit my Christlieb Fundus, the little Paganini."

"Your Christlieb?" asked Dilling in a shaking voice. "And who are you, may I ask?"

"Christlieb is my foster-son; and, with your permission, I am the musician Kummas, from Gelenau. This is Malchen, the child of an old neighbour of mine who is dead; she sings like a lark. We have come a long way to see our Christlieb; so have the kindness to tell us where he is."

During this speech the unhappy Mr. Dilling stood as if on red-hot coals. Collecting all his strength he then muttered, "Truly, you sent me a fine specimen of a youth! The rascal has run away, pawned, or sold my kettledrums, to buy himself gay clothes. But I will bring him to the house of correction for this."

Kummas was as if struck by a second thunderbolt. He reeled backwards, and would have fallen, had not Malchen supported him. "Can this be true?" he said in a low voice to himself.--"Heaven have pity on me! is he really lost?--lost beyond hope!" His head sank on Malchen's shoulder, and he stood mute as a statue.

Warring with his feelings, Mr. Dilling looked at the old man and his companion. He hemmed and coughed, but could not utter a word. At length Kummas said, in a voice of sadness, "And where is my former Christlieb, who now, it seems, neither regards God nor me?"

"How do I know?" replied the embarrassed town musician.--"I tell you he has ran away."

"Come, then, Malchen," said the old broken-hearted man; "I have now nothing to seek but a grave. There, in its stillness, I will rest my weary head; for I am desolate." With these words Kummas turned to go away, and Malchen, weeping, led him carefully and slowly down the steps from the tower. Dilling looked long after them irresolute; but the fear of blame shut his mouth, and he went back into the house, where, in his room, his wife and servant were busy washing away the marks of the blood. Half-way down the steps, Kummas paused to take breath near an open window. "Let me rest here a few minutes, Malchen; the fresh air may revive me." Both stood in silence; but without eyes for the beauty of the scene around them. After a short time they heard the voices and footsteps of persons ascending the staircase.

"I pray you, doctor, do all in your power for the youth," said one of the persons.--"He is the best player of us all."

"Which of them is it?" asked the other.

"It is Christlieb Fundus," replied the first speaker; "the best player on the violin. Show the master that there is some cause for alarm, so that he may not treat the matter as a trifle. I tell you, a stab from a dagger could not be worse than one from the sharp point of an oboe."

At the name of Christlieb, Kummas had become attentive to what was said. A ray of hope gleamed upon him, and he raised his head, awaiting, most anxiously, the appearance of the speakers, who, in a moment or two afterwards, reached the place where he was standing. He addressed them in a voice struggling with emotion. "Kind sirs," he began, "for the love of heaven, tell me where my son Christlieb Fundus is, and what is the matter with him? Has he really run away? or is he sick?"

A glance at the old man was sufficient to determine Rupel to speak the truth.

"If Christlieb is your child, then I will not disguise from you that he has received an injury, and is lying very ill in his bed. Your arrival, though not at the happiest time, is nevertheless fortunate."

"One word more," said Kummas, as Rupel and the doctor were hurrying past;--"is my son really so wicked as the master affirms?"

"The Master!" repeated Rupel, surprised, for he supposed that the two travellers were only on their way up.--"Your son has been always good and well-behaved, and in a single day he could not become the very reverse."

Kummas became less sad; as he would far rather his child were sick in body, than perverse in mind. Malchen and he soon reached again the top of the stairs, and were not long in seeing their favourite, whom they found already under the hands of the doctor, and in a most dangerous state. At this moment, neither of them thought of the mole on the left temple, nor of the fine clothes which were strewn about the room. Kummas and Malchen attended to all the wants of poor Balduin, who, unable to speak, could neither thank them nor unravel the mystery. He now passed through a severe school, which, however, became the means of his radical cure. For three long days he was unable to swallow anything, in consequence of his swollen throat. Afterwards, his medicine and a little tea had to be taken in drops. He was helpless as a child, and had it not been for his youthful strength, the care of the doctor, and the unremitting watchfulness of the old man and Malchen, he could not have recovered. He no longer refused their assistance, but gladly took from the hand of Malchen any cooling draught she offered. Their constant presence lessened the tediousness of the slow creeping hours. How could he have remained insensible to so much love,--to the self-denial exercised for his sake by two persons wholly unconnected with him! When Balduin's sleepless eye, sometimes, during the night, fell on the old man, who, overcome by sleep, was resting on his hard bed of straw, with a thin cover over him,--when he heard the loud regular stroke of the pendulum above his head, sounding as it seemed a death-knell, and saw by the glimmering light of the feeble lamp the black walls of the tower,--then came the elegant dwelling of his father, with all its luxuries, before the eye of his mind. He thought of his gentle mother, who had only been too indulgent to him, and whose heart, as well as that of his affectionate father, he had made sad by his ingratitude. He remembered the treachery and desertion of his three companions; and, overcome by a deep sense of his former thoughtlessness and guilt, he resolved from henceforth, to endeavour to be quite a different character. Remorse had touched his heart, his eyes were opened, and he prayed to God for forgiveness,--to that God who had long, by gentle and gracious means, sought to lead him into paths of virtue, but who now had seen it needful to teach him by affliction and adversity. Balduin, subdued and humbled, now enjoyed the peace which is above all price; and his bodily health amended with that of his mind.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*THE REUNION.*

We often seek at a distance what is to be found quite at hand; and so it happened with Balduin's father, the director of police, Mr. von Winsing, who was searching for his runaway son in remote districts, while the youth was only some miles distant from the capital. A newspaper, which accidentally fell into his hands, made him hastily change his route. This was the notice (already mentioned as being inserted in the public papers) of the detention in prison of the two vagrants, dame Hicup and the woman with the show-box, with an account of the circumstances connected with their seizure. Only a matter of deep interest could have induced the sorrowful father to give up for a time the search of his son, as it was possible he might from what he had read obtain possession of the other child so long lost to him. When he arrived at the small town of Brixen, where the two women were imprisoned, he immediately went to the magistrate and made the following deposition:--

"My dear wife, in the second year of our marriage, presented me with two boys, fine healthy twins, and as like each other as two drops of water. Except by a very small mole on the left cheek of our youngest born, it was almost impossible to distinguish the one from the other. To our great joy they grew in health and strength until they were nine months old, when they were stolen from us in a manner as bold as it was shameless. The grown-up son of the nurse who had charge of the infants was a worthless fellow, and, in consequence of a serious crime he had committed, I was obliged by the duties of my office to have him arrested, and given over for punishment. His mother foolishly imagined that the fate of her son rested with me, and wept and entreated me to set him at liberty. As she failed in obtaining her desire by these means, she meditated a plan which might, as she thought, enable her to attain her object. The letter which she left behind stated that the only way of again receiving the children was to free her son, and to hold her as innocent. These were the only conditions on compliance with which our infants would be restored to us. In addition, the most fearful threats were used if we dared to send persons to find out her place of hiding, or if employed any means whatever for that purpose. We knew too well the unbending character of the woman; and as I had no power to turn aside the course of justice, we feared for the lives of our children. After mature reflection, I resolved to set out myself in search of the woman, and to be very wary and cautious in my proceedings, hoping that if I found her I might get my children by gentle means, or if not, by force. Giving myself no rest either by night or day, it was no wonder if one night I fell asleep in my carriage. But who can describe my astonishment when, at my awaking at daybreak, I saw by the grey light of morning, lying on the empty seat opposite, the youngest of my sons, distinguished by the mole on his left cheek. How he had come there, by whom brought, neither I nor the postilion could tell. So far my search had been fruitless; and it was now necessary, in consequence of this singular circumstance, to return home to my despairing wife. Fifteen long years passed away without our being able to obtain the slightest clue as to what had become of the other child. Permit me then, sir, to have an interview with both prisoners, that I may gain certain information of the life or death of my son. Indeed, I could almost wish to hear of the latter; for if our Balduin, brought up with such care, has caused us so much sorrow, how much worse may not our eldest born have become, falling--as in all probability he would do--into worthless hands."

"I am happy, my dear sir," replied the magistrate, "to have it in my power to allay your apprehensions on that point. You would see from the newspapers that the unfeeling dame Hicup, when she had put the one into the post carriage, placed the other in a manger, from which it was taken out by a poor fiddler, called Kummas, who adopted it. From inquiries we directed to be made in the village where the old man lived, the village of Gelenau, it was ascertained, both from the pastor and the schoolmaster, that your son had become a clever and an excellent youth, and that at present he was in the town of Waldau studying music with the master of the band in that place. It is likewise said that his foster-father, old Kummas, lately left the village, in order to go and live in the neighbourhood of his foster-son, to whom he is very much attached."

The two gentlemen now proceeded to visit the prisoners,--going, in the first instance, to examine the nurse who had stolen them. The moment this woman saw her former master enter the cell she became pale, and turned away her head. As the time for deception, however, was now past, with many tears she confessed what she had done.

"Hannah," said her master with much emotion, "how happy you might have been in your old age had you remained faithful to your trust; for we never would have seen the nurse of our children want for anything. But tell me, how did your son reward you after he came from the house of correction for the deed you had done for his sake?"

A painful expression passed over the face of the woman at this question; and she answered, in a tone of bitterness, "For my love he misused me, and deserted me."

"That is always the reward of the wicked," said the police director, "may it be your only punishment. But why did you leave the children with a stranger, rather than return them to their parents?"

"Hatred and dread of punishment," replied Hannah. "When I had wandered with them on my back for five days in woods and solitary places, I was unable to carry them any farther, so I determined to free myself of them in a proper way. Besides, I thought that if I were caught and put in prison, I might be the better able to make conditions by refusing to tell the place where I had left them, unless leniently dealt with."

Dame Hicup, into whose cell they next went, complained bitterly of the hardship of having been so long imprisoned, as she conceived that instead of being punished in this fashion, she deserved a recompense, as she had managed so well with the twins, and had been the means of discovering the real thief. The director of police promised to get her and her blind husband admission into a charitable institution, where they might lead a comfortable life, with the exception of brandy-drinking, as of that liquid they would find none. Mr. von Winsing had now nothing to do but hasten to Waldau, there to seek his son at the house of the _stadt-musikus_.

Reinhold, the son whom he expected to find there, was still in the capital with his mother, and perfectly restored to health. The Lady von Winsing had written to her husband relating the joyful tidings of having found her eldest-born: but, in consequence of the director's change of plan, the letter had not reached him. When Madame von Winsing, by a letter from Brixen, learnt what had happened, and where her husband had gone to, she resolved to give him a surprise by meeting him, along with Reinhold, at Waldau; and therefore made preparations for doing so. The chief thing to be done was to purchase a pair of kettle-drums, without which Christlieb declared he dared not face his former master.

Almost at the same hour when Mr. Winsing left Brixen for Waldau, his lady and Christlieb started from the capital for the same town.

Balduin, in the meanwhile, was so far recovered as to be able to walk on to the gallery to breathe the pleasant air of spring.

The _stadt-musikus_, whose selfishness returned as his fears departed, had this morning plainly told Kummas and Malchen that their presence was no longer necessary, and that they must now look out for some other lodging. He was, however, not a little surprised when Balduin told him that he was not Christlieb, but the son of the police director at the capital. Kummas and Malchen were not so much amazed, for they of late had begun to have their doubts, when they remembered the mole on the left cheek and the fine clothes. They did not regret what they had done from love to the apparent Christlieb; but they were oppressed with anxiety as to what had become of the real one. Without any hint from the town-musician, they had resolved to depart whenever they were assured that Balduin was not their Christlieb; and they immediately prepared for their departure to seek for their dear lost one. In vain Balduin entreated them first to go with him to see his parents, as soon as the doctor thought him fit for the journey; nothing would keep them, no reward induce them to delay. As Malchen was tying up their few poor clothes, she whispered to Kummas, "Although Balduin certainly at first treated us very ill, yet I cannot help liking him, in spite too of his killing the poor starling; for he is so like Christlieb, and I think is far more reasonable than he was."

"You may be right as to the last part of your speech," replied the old man; "but not in the first. Master Balduin, with his pale face and sunk eyes, is only like the moon; but my Christlieb, with his rosy cheeks, is like the fiery sun; and even were that not the case, my Christlieb can play on the violin, while this Balduin can only whine."

The door bell rang, and Balduin's father stepped in when the servant opened. He seemed panting for breath; wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and then said, "Where is the town-musician? Are the pupils within?"

The maid-servant directed him to the small gallery where Dilling was walking, as well as Balduin. In spite of the paleness and thinness of Balduin (the effect of his illness), the police director instantly recognised his son. But, in order not to alarm him, he remained for a few moments looking at him. When, however, Balduin accidentally turned fully round his face, Mr. Winsing could resist no longer, and, rushing up to him with open arms, he exclaimed, "Yes; there can be no doubt! you are my son Reinhold! behold in me your father, dear child, and embrace me!"

Balduin had sunk on his knees before his deeply affected parent, and said, "Father, forgive me! I have erred and done wrong; but I have been grievously punished for my folly."

Here the _stadt-musikus_ looked rather embarrassed and fidgetty, while the police director cried out in astonishment, "Are you not"----

"I am Balduin, your unworthy son, and not the gentle Christlieb, or Reinhold, who attracts all hearts," said the repentant youth.

"But where, then, is the real Christlieb?" asked the gentleman, turning to Mr. Dilling. "Was he not a pupil of yours, and his foster-father a poor village musician?"

"Where he is I know not," replied the _stadt-musikus_. "Since the breaking up of the ice he has disappeared, along with my kettle-drums."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Mr. von Winsing. "Just at the moment when, after a fifteen years' separation, I had hoped to embrace my child, to hear that I may have lost him for ever."

At this moment the servant came and announced that a stranger wished to see Mr. Dilling, who, glad to make his escape, hastened away. Balduin meanwhile related to his father everything that had happened to him, and all he had suffered.

The town-musician was most agreeably surprised when a man laden with two superb kettle-drums, stood before him. "Master Christlieb Fundus sends his respects," stammered out the man, "and sends you back your drums. Not the old drums, to be sure, for they were lost in the river; but speck and span new ones.--Master Christlieb begs you will excuse their not having been sent sooner; but he has been long very ill." With these words, the messenger put down the shining drums, with their snow-white leather tops and elegant sticks, which the town musician most joyfully received. His delight was augmented when the door again opened, and Christlieb himself, followed by his mother, walked into the house, and rushed into the arms of old Kummas, whom he encountered ready for his departure.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed the old man, shedding tears of joy, while he pressed his foster-son to his heart; "this is the real Christlieb! Rejoice with me, for I have again found my Fundus!"

"Mother! dearest mother!" sobbed Christlieb, "this is my good foster-father, who took me out of the manger, and carried me in the violincello to his home."

The high-bred, beautiful lady most heartily embraced the honest countryman, while Christlieb went on to say,--"Father Kummas, this is my mother, the kindest-hearted person in all the world; and there is Malchen," he continued, still more pleased, drawing the bashful girl forward; "Malchen, the faithful friend, who brought me the cake when I was in the dungeon, and who took care of my starling!"

"And here is your excellent father," said Madame von Winsing, hastening towards her husband, who had just entered the room. "Oh! my dear husband, what a son have we found in Reinhold!"

His father embraced the latter in a tumult of joy. "Seeing, however, poor Balduin weeping in a corner, who did not presume to mingle with the happy circle, Mr. von Winsing turned towards him and took him by the hand to lead him to his mother.

"Dear wife," said the director, "this tower is an enchanted place! It makes the sorrowful glad and the wicked good. Our Balduin has lately had some lessons here, which have quite changed him. He is now worthy of your affection."

Mr. Dilling had been all this time in a fever of anxiety to try his new drums, and now he could resist no longer. Without being asked, he began, by a splendid flourish on them, to play the sublime melody of--

"Now let us all thank God!"

And to this every one present responded with profound feelings of gratitude.

THE END.

*THE WOOD-GATHERER*

One summer evening, a girl, barefoot and clad in a ragged frock, might have been seen in a deep wood, gathering fuel. She was scarcely ten years old, yet for a long time had been sent out by her parents, day after day, to seek, as now, dry sticks, or, if it was spring-time, rampions and wild hops, or, if it were summer, strawberries and hillberries, and to offer these for sale from house to house.

When she had nothing to sell, she had to go about begging. Without bringing something she dared not return home, if she wished to escape a scolding, or even being beaten; for her parents were poor, and her father a moody and passionate man.

It had not always been so; but since unproductive times and repeated recurrence of sickness in his family had prevented him from advancing, as he had hoped, in his trade--he was a shoemaker--he had, under a godless dejection, given himself up to drinking, thereby scaring away his last customers, and completing his domestic misery.

The mother, a capital wife, as one would say, but as little acquainted with God and His Word as her husband, was thenceforth compelled to bear singly the burden of supporting her family, and was accustomed to go out and earn money by washing. For more than a year the sorely-smitten family had been deprived even of this scanty means of subsistence, the poor woman's uninterrupted exertions by day and by night having brought on a severe illness, and laid her paralytic--lame, hand and foot--in bed, surrounded by her raging husband, and the three half-naked and starving children.

The eldest of the children was Mary, our wood-gatherer.

The little girl, as she is to be met to-day deep in the wood, has collected a pretty large bundle of dry branches, but is weary from her long wandering about the bushes, and lays herself down to rest on the moss-grown roots of a tall, shady beech-tree.

And while she sits, it is as if the birds in the wood all found an inward compassion with the poor child, and would, as far as lay in their power, encourage, comfort, and cheer her.

Our little Mary thought within herself that she had never heard the feathered songsters sing so sweetly as they were now doing in choirs on the green twigs around her.

And it was indeed delightful to listen how the finch warbled here in short, fresh lay, and the titmouse and sisken there sounded their tender notes; and how, from the copse threaded by the brook, arose the long-breathed farewell song of the nightingale; and, from the far distance, the full melancholy trill of the blackbird floated touchingly over.

The cuckoo, also, and the turtle-dove, gave their contribution to the general concert; the ravens, also, in the neighbouring oak, to whom the song is denied, appeared desirous of contributing their share to the entertainment of the little maid, and fed their young before her eyes, and the young ones stretched their necks out of the high nest, and opened wide their bills. The squirrels frisked about, now here, now there, and leaped from tree to tree; and many of the birds came close to Mary's feet, and picked up worms, or a feather, or flock of moss, and flew away with it to their nests.

Mary looked a long time at this joyous life almost with adoration; and, in the still, lofty wood, her heart had a strange feeling, as if she could, at the same time, laugh and weep. She had also her own thoughts, glad and sorrowful, but more of the latter, and yet she did not herself very well know what she really thought. At last she bent her head on her breast, and the evening zephyrs sighed her asleep.

During the slumber she had a wonderful dream.

She dreamed that she was again in a deep lonely wood, and as she looked up, see! there walked through the shades of the trees, clothed in a shining white garment, a majestic form with a friendly countenance.

All the birds immediately gathered round the mysterious man, and hovered about him with wonderful songs, the like of which she had never heard. And from his full hands he strewed food of all kinds for the cheerful singers, and the birds picked it up, and carried it to their nests, and flew back singing still more heartily and beautifully than before.

And Mary heard the name of the gracious man distinctly repeated in every chorus, and it seemed as if she had never heard so sweet and dear a name. And Mary thought--"Oh, thou kind man, were I but one of these kind birds of thine, and wert thou but to step once into our cottage as thou enterest here!"

And as she thus thought, she was just on the point of rising to hasten after him, and seize the hem of his garment, and say, "Not so, you come to us also;" but then she awoke, and, alas! what she had heard and seen was but a dream. She found herself alone in the dark wood, for the sun had long ago gone down. By her side lay the bundle of sticks--nothing more. Deep silence reigned around her, only broken by the rustling of the evening wind among the leaves of the trees, and now and then the solitary doleful sounds which were winged across from the distant nightingales, and now and then a beetle humming in the air, or a glow-worm shining amongst the shrubs.

Sorrowfully Mary rose up from her mossy seat, put her faggot on her shoulders, and took the way home.

But the sensations kindled by the pleasant dream lived on in her heart, and the image of the friendly man had impressed itself indelibly on her mind.

If she could but recall his name! In her dream it was repeatedly and distinctly pronounced in the songs of the birds, but at the moment of awaking it had escaped, and, cast about as she might, it was not again to be found.

This is not to be wondered at. All over Christendom there are still houses like those of the heathens, where the name in which all salvation is contained is unknown, or, if known, unpronounced.

Such a house that of the parents of this poor child unfortunately was. Mary had never yet been in school. Father and mother, when admonished of their duty, had always pretended that the child was too unwell to be at the time sent to school; and the frequency with which their residence in town had been changed, rendered it difficult for the authorities to take proper oversight of the children.

Mary was now in her own street, walking silently on, trying and trying whether the dear name which she had dreamed would not come back again.

With a friendly "Good evening, my child," a man in a black dress and white bands placed himself beside her. He had just been dispensing comfort at a dying bed.

Mary, buried in thought, was rather startled at the salutation, and stared with great eyes at the stranger, but did not recognise him, for she had never been in church, or only by accident for a few hasty moments. She returned laconically the hearty greeting, fell back again into the train of her meditations, and continued to proceed silently along the street.

The man, however, did not leave her, but entered into conversation, asking from what place she came so late, who her parents were, and in what state matters were at home; and as he spoke so affectionately and paternally, the child gradually opened her whole heart, and went on to tell of their great poverty, and how her mother was so sick, and her little brother and sisters hungered, and her father--but, as she mentioned her father, the tears started to her eyes, and she could not utter one word more for sobbing.

Then the pastor told her--for we already know that it was he--to keep up her spirits, and be of good cheer, better times might come round again. "For," said he, "there lives one, a good, rich, powerful Lord; they only required to apply to Him, and complain to Him of their want, and He would certainly help them; He had already assisted many thousands of poor people."

When the maiden heard these words, she suddenly stood still in the middle of the street, and the look with which she regarded the pastor distinctly asked, "Who is the Great Helper? Mention His name!" And the latter continued his discourse thus: "Do you not know the dear Lord who feeds the birds in the air, which sow not neither reap, and who clothes the lilies of the field, which toil not, neither spin, and yet are more beautifully arrayed than Solomon in all his glory? You surely know Him; or did you never hear of Jesus, the merciful Saviour?"

At these words Mary knew not what to make of it. Ah, thought she, transported with joy, now I have it! Yes! yes! so sounded the name which the birds in the wood praised in my dream!

She thought, but kept close all that had happened to her, and what she had met with, and said, in a touchingly suppliant voice, "Dear sir, tell me more of this Jesus;" and how willingly her friendly companion complied with her request!

He commenced and explained how all the children of men must have perished on account of their sins, had the great and holy God strictly and righteously dealt with them. He next told her of the merciful love of the Almighty--that it was so great that He rather gave for them His most beloved and eternal Son, than leave them to the destruction which they had deserved. This Son, though beyond all measure rich, yet for our sakes became a poor man and our brother, and is rightly named Jesus the Saviour. He staked His all to deliver us and redeem our lost inheritance; and He is now the helping friend of poor sinners, who still, though unseen, goes about over the land, and blessing, and dispensing kindness and comforts wherever He is but desired.

This was the substance of the discourse which the pastor held with the little wood-gatherer, in a way which children could understand.