Chapter XIV: Conclusion

“THAT’S right, Lily, place the books ready; get everything right for dear mother,” said George, as, with a step and manner, oh, how changed! he entered the drawing-room the next morning.

“I want you to see that I do not forget your advice. I am going to be a real comfort to mamma.”

“And so am I!” cried Eddy, with glee.

“My healthy arm shall be her stay,
And I will wipe her tears away!”

He stopped short, and stared in wonder at his brother. “Are you going to cry, Georgie?” he exclaimed.

“What is the matter, George, dear George?” cried Lily, looking alarmed.

“Sit down beside me, dear Lily and Eddy,” said George, when he had recovered his voice. “I want to speak with you quietly and seriously—I want to speak to you about our dear parents.”

“But is anything the matter?” repeated Lily.

“I am going to leave you—I am going to Bristol—I—”

He was interrupted by a passionate exclamation from Lily, and something like a howl from Eddy.

“I wish you to take my place—to be to those dear parents all that I once hoped to be; to obey them cheerfully, without a murmur; to try and find out their wishes, even before they can speak them; to—”

“But you shan’t go, Georgie; I won’t let you go!” cried Eddy, seizing his brother’s arm with both his hands, as if to detain him by force.

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and George turned very pale at the sound. The next minute Mrs. Ellerslie entered the drawing-room to receive the expected visitor. The lady’s eyes looked swollen and red, and her form drooped like a withering flower. Eddy popped a cushion on her chair, and Lily drew a footstool before it.

Mr. Ellerslie, whose voice had been heard on the stairs in conversation with some one whose cracked, peculiar tones grated harshly on the ear, now threw open the door and followed into the apartment a little shrunken figure, dressed in a snuff-coloured coat, considerably the worse for wear. I could not wonder, when I looked at the visitor, at poor George’s reluctance to exchange the society of all whom he loved so well for that of his cousin at Bristol. There was something shabby, mean, even dirty, in his appearance, which gave the impression that he was out of place in a gentleman’s house; while a terrible squint in his left eye, and a strange twitch in his face, which set Eddy laughing, made his countenance the reverse of agreeable.

Mr. Hardcastle, in an uncouth, awkward manner, shook hands with Mrs. Ellerslie, nodded to Lily, and chucked Eddy good-humouredly under the chin; then, clapping George heartily on the back, he said, “So, my man, you are going back with me to Bristol! That’s right. See that your trunk is packed by Monday; we’ll be off by the early train.”

“I shall be ready, sir,” answered the boy.

Mr. Hardcastle sat down, pulled out his snuff-box, took a pinch of its contents, part of which he bestowed on the carpet, then held out the box to Eddy, who examined with interest the picture on the lid.

“I’ll arrange it with you, Ellerslie, to-day,” said the old gentleman; “we’ll go to the city together, make all right, set all smooth.” He passed his fingers through his hair, and stretched out his legs with an air of satisfaction, in marvellous good-humour with himself.

“I am very sensible how much I am indebted to you,” began Mr. Ellerslie, making an effort to speak.

“Say nothing about it, say nothing about it—it’s all settled and done. When a man comes half-way to meet me, why it’s my way to go the other half to meet him. Eh, George?” he added, as if appealing to the boy, who stood silently and sadly leaning against the arm of the sofa.

George’s answer was a half-suppressed sigh.

“You look glumpish,” said the old gentleman, fixing the eye which did not squint on the boy. “You don’t wish to go with me, eh?”—the cracked voice had impatience in its tone.

“I wish to do—whatever is best for my parents.”

“But you don’t like going, eh?” said Mr. Hardcastle, resting his bony hands on his knees, and leaning forward with a look of peevish irritability.

“I cannot like—leaving my home for another,” answered George gravely; “but I am ready to do it—I do not complain.”

Mr. Hardcastle continued his sharp scrutiny of the boy’s countenance, as if he would read him through and through. There was a painful moment of silence—it was broken by little Eddy.

“You shan’t take away George,” said he, going close to the old man, and looking earnestly up into his face.

“I shan’t! shall I not? and why not, my little man?” said Mr. Hardcastle, lifting the child on his knee.

“Because—because—Georgie must not be sent far away like the compass, but stay here at home like the needle.”

“Like what?” exclaimed Mr. Hardcastle, laughing.

“It’s a story Georgie told us,” said the child, pulling the buttons on the coat of the old gentleman.

“Let’s hear his story, by all means, my dear.”

Poor Eddy looked exceedingly puzzled, for he had very little command of language, and did not know how to put his thoughts into words. At last he said, “Georgie told it to make us good, and busy, and kind, and a comfort to papa and mamma.”

“Ah! that must have been a capital story; I should like to hear you tell me all about it.”

“Eddy,” said his father, “how can you plague Mr. Hardcastle with your nonsense?”

“I beg your pardon, he does not plague me at all. It amuses me to hear what the little fellow has to say. So out with your improving story, Master Eddy!”

Eddy tells his story.
_Page 120._
]

Poor Eddy turned round and looked at his brother; but George seemed disposed to render him no assistance. He glanced at Lily—she would not utter a word. He was left to his own resources.

“Well, once upon a time,” he began, but stopped short. “I can’t tell a story,” said the child; “it is too hard—I can only remember a bit of the fairy’s pretty song.”

“A little is better than nothing,” cried the old gentleman, much amused at the perplexed look of the child. “Let’s hear what the fairy sang.”

“It was something about what we all should do, Georgie said. It made me think I should like to do it too. This was it;” and keeping time with his fore-finger, he slowly repeated—

“What is marred, make right;
What is severed, unite;
And leave where’er you pass love’s golden thread of light!”

The hard features of the old man softened as he listened to the lisping child. “That’s the song, is it?” said he, stroking Eddy’s locks in rather an abstracted manner. “What is severed, unite,” he repeated to himself;—“here it is, _What is united, sever!_” and he glanced at George and his mother.

“That won’t do at all,” said Eddy, overhearing him; “that sounds bad—shocking bad!”

“Does it?” said Mr. Hardcastle, laughing. “Well, I really believe that it does. So George teaches you to be busy, and obedient, and kind, and makes you all happy; does he, eh?”

“Oh yes!” cried Eddy, jumping down and running up to his brother.

“It would be a shame to part you, then, it would be a shame!” said the old man, rising. “No, no; I am not so bad as that! George, stay with your parents; you are an honour to them, my boy! stay and be a comfort and blessing in your home!—And now, Ellerslie, shall we start for the city?”

I shall not attempt to describe the deep, intense joy which followed the utterance of these few words, the delight which sparkled in the eyes of George, or the fervent exclamation of thankfulness from his mother!—but none looked merrier than the kindhearted old man himself, unless it were our little friend Eddy.

I have often thought of that scene since, and talked it over with the Thimble. She has become too small for Lily’s finger now, but occupies a quiet corner in the box. The broken-pointed Scissors I have lost sight of for years. Lily has grown into a sweet, gentle young maiden, ever watchful to show kindness to those who need it, ever thoughtful of the feelings of others. Her mother speaks of her now as her “right hand;” and the bloom has returned to the lady’s pale cheek, and her brow is calm and serene. George has entered the Church, I understand; and Eddy, like the compass in the story, is pursuing his way on the wide ocean. But I have reason to believe that, in their different paths, both are pressing forward to the same happy goal, and in their intercourse with the world, as well as in their peaceful home, are living in the spirit of the song—

“On life’s ocean wide,
Your fellow-creatures guide,
And point to a shore beyond the stormy tide!
What is marred, make right;
What is severed, unite;
And leave where’er you pass love’s golden thread of light!”

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GLORY

“WHAT a proud, happy young fellow that Prince Imperial must be!” exclaimed Harry Lance, as he glanced up from the newspaper which he had been reading by the light of a lamp, on the evening of the 4th of August. “Why, here is this young Louis, not a year older than myself, and already there is a telegram about him darting all over Europe, and the world will soon know how calm and brave he was the first time that he ever saw fighting, how he picked up the Prussian ball which had fallen near his feet, and how old soldiers had tears in their eyes to see their boy Prince so firm in the moment of danger. I dare say that he will live to cover himself with glory, and be as famous as was his great-uncle, Napoleon the First. I only wish that I were the son of the Emperor of the French!”

“I should not care to change places with the Prince Imperial,” observed Arthur Lance, who was seated by the open window, to enjoy the fresh evening air, and watch the stars gleaming out one by one in the sky.

“What! not to have his chance of winning glory, and of being talked of—like his great-uncle—years and years after his death?”

Arthur smiled at the question. “I don’t think that would do him much good,” observed he.

“You’ve not a spark of spirit in you Arthur!” cried Harry; “at least not a spark of the spirit of a hero. I do believe that you would rather have been that missionary who went to teach woolly-haired niggers, and died of yellow fever, than the glorious Napoleon Buonaparte himself!”

Arthur was silent; but his mother, who had just joined him by the window, observed, “I believe that the missionary’s was the nobler life, the happier death, and the more lasting glory.”

NAPOLEON AS A BOY DIRECTING A SNOW-BALL FIGHT.
]

“Oh, not _glory_, mother!” exclaimed Harry. “There was no glory in the humdrum life which he led, and ten years hence no one will so much as remember his name. Napoleon had glory indeed! From his very boyhood he was a leader of others. If his schoolfellows had a mimic fight, it was Napoleon who directed the battle, and taught future soldiers to pelt each other with snow-balls, as they would one day pelt their foes with something more deadly. What power Napoleon had over his men! How his words could rouse them to rush to battle as if to a feast! How grand and glorious he must have looked on a field of battle, as he glanced down the columns of armed men eager to follow him to victory, and heard their shouts of _Vive l’Empereur_, as they pressed forward to glory! One such hour of Napoleon’s life must have been worth ten years of the life of a drudging teacher of niggers!” The boy’s eyes sparkled with animation as he spoke.

“There was one hour of Napoleon’s life when he is said to have himself played the teacher, and I think that he appeared greater then than on the battle-field,” said Mrs. Lance. “I will show you a large print which I have representing the scene. It describes an incident which is said to have occurred on the deck of a vessel in which Napoleon, then a young officer, was making his voyage to Egypt. A group of French officers had been conversing together, speaking like the fool of whom we read in the Bible, who says that _there is no God_. The glittering stars were spangling the sky above them, shining down as they have shone for thousands of years, and bearing witness to the power of their great Creator. _The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handywork._ Napoleon approached the unbelievers, lifted up his hand towards the stars, and said, ‘Gentlemen, who made _these_?’ The officers could not reply; even their blinded souls could see the awful truth taught by the stars—that there is, that there must be, a great and glorious Creator!”

“But was Napoleon himself a religious man?” inquired Arthur.

“I fear that he was far from being so,” was the reply. “No real Christian could for his own wild ambition plunge nations into war, and sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands of men. If Napoleon Buonaparte’s name is written in history, it is written in blood, and fire, and tears. I have often wished that the stars, which preached one text to Napoleon, could have preached one other to his heart; then the conqueror would have felt that there is a glory greater and more lasting than that which earthly triumphs can give.”

“I cannot think what text you mean,” said Arthur.

“Nor can I,” added his brother.

Their mother left them to find it out, and continued her observations. “The same stars on which Napoleon had looked from the deck of the ship, must often have met his gaze in the distant lands to which he led his hosts—those lands in which so many gallant soldiers were to find their graves.”

“Ah! how fearfully the French suffered in Russia,” interrupted Harry; “certainly there Napoleon’s history was written in blood, and fire, and tears. I’ve read how the Russians burned their own beautiful city of Moscow, that it might not give shelter to the invaders.”

“The Russians showed themselves to be ready to make any sacrifice in order to drive the French out of their land,” observed Mrs. Lance. “The Russians fought bravely, but it was the rigour of their wintry clime, the icy wind, the falling snow, that proved more deadly to the French than even the swords of their foes. Multitudes of gallant men, who had entered Russia full of hope and courage, perished miserably under the snow. And who can tell the grief in thousands and thousands of homes in France, where widows and orphans wept for fathers, brothers, sons, whom they never should see again?”

“I own that Napoleon bought his glory too dear,” said Harry gravely.

“No doubt he thought so himself,” observed Arthur, “when, as a prisoner in St. Helena, he had plenty of time to remember all these terrible things.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lance; “on that dreary rocky isle bitterly must the mighty conqueror have recalled the past. There, unchanged in their calm brightness, the quiet stars shone over him still, and they may have reminded the exile—”

NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.
]

“Ha! what’s that?” interrupted Harry, suddenly starting from his seat and rushing to the window, as, with a rushing, whizzing noise, a rocket shot up into the deep blue sky.

“Oh! don’t you remember that we heard that there were to be fireworks to-night in the Earl’s grounds?” said Arthur. “I am so glad that we shall be able to see the rockets over the trees. Look—oh! look—there’s another! it rises higher than the first!”

“How beautiful—how grand—how glorious it is!” exclaimed Harry, clapping his hands with delight. “It darts aloft like a conqueror rising upwards and upwards; and there—see how it bursts into a shower of stars—much brighter than stars—filling the sky with its spangles of light! There is nothing so glorious to look upon as a rocket!”

For nearly an hour the mother and her sons watched the beautiful fireworks over the trees, the rockets bursting on high into showers of many-coloured sparks which entirely hid the stars from view. Then, after the grandest display of all, the sight concluded; all was over, the beauty and the glory. Quiet night reigned around, and the stars which had gemmed the sky since the days of Adam, glimmered again in their silent beauty on high.

“The rockets were very fine, but their glory was soon over,” observed Harry, as he turned from the window. “They have gone, and have left nothing behind.”

“They are types of worldly glory,” said his mother.

“And the stars are like—oh, mother,” exclaimed Arthur, interrupting himself in the midst of his sentence, “I have just remembered the text which you wished that the stars had preached to the heart of Napoleon—it makes me think of the young missionary who died amongst the Africans whom he had led to the Lord: _They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever!_” (Dan. xii 3.)

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THE VICTORY.

FRITZ ARNT was the son of a poor widow, who dwelt near the shore of the Rhine. He had been her chief comfort and helper since the day when Carl Gesner, the hard-hearted farmer, had turned her and her three children out of their cottage the very afternoon on which the funeral of her husband had taken place. In the middle of winter the sobbing widow had to go forth from her home; carrying little with her, for Carl had seized on most of her goods for the rent, which during her husband’s long illness had fallen into arrears. Yes! he had kept the very bed upon which her husband had breathed his last; and but for the kindness of neighbours, Frau Arnt and her children would have had to sleep on straw.

Fritz had been but a young boy then; but he had never forgotten the bitterness of that moment when his mother, sad, sick, and desolate, had pleaded with clasped hands to her hard-hearted landlord for a little delay, and had pleaded in vain. Fritz had helped to nurse her through a dangerous illness which followed. The boy had never forgiven the farmer, but had often said in his heart that a time would come when he should make Carl Gesner bitterly repent having nearly caused the death of a sorrowing widow.

Since that sad winter Fritz had worked hard to help to support the family, and with increasing success. His wages for field labour eked out what Frau Arnt earned at the lace-pillow; and something like comfort was beginning to be enjoyed in his humble home, when the sound of the war-bugle was heard in his native valley, and the news spread far and wide that a fierce and terrible foe was on the march to invade the German’s Fatherland. Fritz was under the age for military service which all Prussians are bound to give; but he had a strong arm, and his country needed strong arms. He was eager to serve his king, and be one of the throngs that from every hamlet were hasting to join the ranks of the army.

But Fritz was too good a son to go without his widowed mother’s consent. He had not only learned, but kept, that divine commandment, HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER. The lad would not quit his home without obtaining that leave which he was almost afraid to ask.

Frau Arnt was sitting with her lace-pillow on her knee, the glow of the evening sun shining on her thin, worn face, when Fritz drew near. He watched for some moments her busy fingers plying the threads, before he observed,—

“My brother Wilhelm is a strong boy now, and older than I was when we first came here.”

He paused: there was no reply. The widow guessed what was coming, and her fingers moved faster than before.

“Farmer Schwartz says that he would give Wilhelm my place, mother, and make his wages the same as mine, if—”

Fritz stopped again, and glanced anxiously into the face of his mother. She suddenly paused in her work; her hands were trembling too much to guide the threads, and her eyes were swimming in tears, so that she could not see the pattern. Fritz knew then that his mother read his thoughts, and that there was a struggle in her mind between her love for him and a sense of duty. It was some time before, in a very low voice, he spoke again:—

“Mother, men are needed to guard your home and other homes. You have two sons; will you not spare _one_ to your Fatherland?”

The widow suddenly rose; her pillow dropped from her knee; her arms were thrown around the neck of her son, and her face was buried on his shoulder, as she sobbed forth,—

“Go, and the Lord be with thee, my son!”

FRITZ BIDDING GOOD-BYE TO HIS FRIENDS.
]

Very little time was spent in preparation by Fritz. The very next day he set out for the army. But before doing so, Fritz, accompanied by Wilhelm and their sister, went round the hamlet to bid good-bye to his friends. There was but one house which Fritz would not enter: it was that at whose door stood Carl Gesner and his wife, watching him as he bade farewell to friends on the opposite side of the road. At that time of excitement all Prussians were ready to show kindness to the brave defenders of their land; and Fritz knew that even Carl might be willing to make friends with a young soldier then, for the farmer had such patriotic zeal as to talk of joining the army himself. But Fritz would have nothing to do with Carl Gesner. “I will never cross the threshold nor grasp the hand of a man who turned us all out of doors, and nearly killed my mother,” muttered Fritz to himself, as he strode past the house of the farmer.

I will not dwell upon the bitter parting. Frau Arnt felt as if her heart would break; for she had heard so much of the power of France, that she deemed that her country was entering on a desperate struggle indeed, and that there was small chance that she would ever again behold her gallant young son. But the frau was a pious woman: she committed her boy to the care of a heavenly Father; and her last words to Fritz as they parted were, “Remember that it is God that giveth the victory.”

Often these encouraging words came back to the young soldier’s mind, as he marched with his comrades singing the soul-stirring song,—

“Dear Fatherland! no fear be thine;
Firm hearts and true watch by the Rhine!”

The regiment to which Fritz was attached was not engaged in the first battles. Several weeks passed before the youth was brought face to face with strife and death. The time was not spent idly. Fritz learned much that a soldier must know: he learned not only his drill exercise, but also how to endure hardship and toil.

At last Fritz’s regiment joined one of the army corps on the eve of a great battle. At the end of a long march Fritz reached the Prussian camp, and from a hill-side looked for the first time on the enemy’s hosts ranged on the opposite slopes. They were near enough for Fritz to catch the faint sound of their trumpet-call as the sun went down—near enough for him to distinguish the colour of their flags, before night shut out all but camp-fires from his view. And Fritz heard and saw what made his heart beat fast—the booming of French cannon, and the puffs of white smoke which rose above them; for a few shots were exchanged on that evening between the two armies that were so soon to close in deadly strife.

The eve of a first battle is a solemn time even to the bravest of men. “One of these cannon may bring _my_ death-summons to-morrow,” thought Fritz, as he stood leaning on his gun, with his eyes turned towards the enemy’s quarters, which darkness was now shrouding from his sight. Then from the lad’s lips rose the German battle-prayer—that noble hymn composed by the poet Körner, who fell defending his country against the First Napoleon:—

“Father, I call on Thee!
Through the dense smoke the war-thunder is pealing;
Over my head the fierce lightning is wheeling:
Ruler of armies, I call on thee;
Father, O guide Thou me!

“Father, now lead me on!
Lead me to slaughter, or lead me to glory;
Since Thou ordainest whatever is before me,
Whate’er Thou willest, Thy will be done
To Thee I bow alone!

“Father, O bless and guide!
Thine is my life, and to Thee I commend it;
Thou didst bestow it, and Thou canst defend it:
In life, in death, with me abide,
And be Thou glorified!”

“And can I thus calmly commend my spirit to my heavenly Father?” thought Fritz. “If, as is likely enough, I am to be one of those who will lie stiff and stark in yon valley before the setting of to-morrow’s sun, am I sure that I have made my peace with God so that death need have no terrors for me?”—In how many brave souls must such thoughts arise on the eve of battle!

“My mother has often told me that we are saved by _faith_”—thus Fritz went on with his musings—“and I can say from my heart that I do believe. Yes! I believe in Him through whom is forgiveness of sins; I believe in His mercy, His merits, His Word”—Fritz almost started, for at that moment one sentence spoken by the Holy One flashed across his memory, and by that sentence he stood condemned:—“IF YE FORGIVE NOT MEN THEIR TRESPASSES, NEITHER WILL YOUR FATHER FORGIVE YOUR TRESPASSES.” Fritz Arnt thought of Carl Gesner.

“Have I not nourished hatred and malice in my heart for years?” thought the young soldier. “Then have my very prayers been a mockery; then am I still UNFORGIVEN. I dare face an earthly foe, but how dare I face a heavenly Judge? But how can I conquer these feelings of dislike and revenge—these enemies in my heart? They seem to be part of my very nature.”

Then the night breeze seemed to whisper to the young soldier the words last heard from the lips of his mother,—“_It is God that giveth the victory_.” Fritz sank on his knees and prayed, not now for help in the coming strife with the enemies of his country, but for help in the present struggle with the enemies of his soul.

Very fearful was the battle on the following day. Let us pass over the fearful details, nor describe how God’s creatures destroyed each other by thousands, till the Germans fought their way to victory over heaps of the slain. Their triumph was dearly purchased indeed; numbers of their bravest fell beneath the deadly fire of the French. Fritz rushed forward, with a few soldiers of his own and of another regiment, to seize a French gun which had made terrible havoc in the Prussian lines. Almost before the smoke from the last discharge of that gun had cleared away, there was a hand-to-hand struggle around it. In the confusion of that struggle Fritz saw a Prussian fall under a blow from a Frenchman’s sword. Even as he fell, Fritz caught a glimpse of his face: begrimed as it was with smoke and dust, the young soldier recognized the features of Carl Gesner! The Frenchman’s sword was raised again to kill the prostrate Prussian; but Fritz sprang forward, warded the blow, and at the same moment himself fell to the earth, struck in the thigh by a musket ball from another quarter.

Sudden darkness seemed to come over the wounded youth. A rushing noise in his ears drowned even the roar of cannon and the sound of tumult and shouting. Fritz Arnt swooned, and lay for many hours senseless under the muzzle of the gun which he had helped to capture.

When Fritz again opened his eyes, the tumult had died away; the battle was over; the calm stars were looking down from the midnight sky upon heaps of dead and dying. Fritz was in severe pain, but gradually quite recovered his senses, and could think again on his mother, and silently lift up his heart in the battle-prayer.

“Oh for one drop of water! I am dying of thirst!” groaned a wounded Prussian beside him.

The voice was that of Carl Gesner, who lay within a yard’s length of the youth who had saved his life from the Frenchman’s sword. Fritz made no reply. His lips too were parched and dry, and the fever thirst was upon him. Oh, how he longed for one draught of the pure fresh spring which gushed forth near the home of his widowed mother!

Presently lights were seen moving over the dark field: helpers of the wounded were going about on their errand of mercy. But there were too few of them to do the work quickly; for so many poor soldiers lay low that it was impossible in one night to relieve the terrible wants of all. With keen anxiety Fritz watched the distant lights, while Carl Gesner lay groaning beside him. At last a torch-bearer drew near, with a companion who bore a red cross on his arm and a large water-flask in his hand.

“I must go back to refill the flask; there are but a few drops of water left in it,” observed one of the men.

Fritz half raised himself on his elbow with a desperate effort.

“Help! help!” he cried out; for the very name of water made his thirst more intense.

“Here, my poor fellow! would that I had more with me!” said the bearer of the flask, stooping down to pour its last contents into the mouth of the wounded young soldier.

There was again a faint groan from Carl Gesner. He was then too faint to speak, but his groan fell on the ear of Fritz Arnt. “IF THINE ENEMY THIRST, GIVE HIM TO DRINK.” Fritz in the midst of his pain and want remembered the Lord’s command.

“Give it to that man instead,” he murmured; “he is more badly wounded than I am.” And with the generous request on his lips the brave soldier fainted again.

There lay Fritz, twice a conqueror—over the foe, and over himself. God had given him the victory.

* * * * *

When Fritz awoke again from what had seemed the slumber of death, he found himself in an hospital, to which the helpers of the wounded had borne him. There he lay for many weeks, during the latter part of the time nursed by his own dear mother. During his slow recovery, Fritz was cheered by the knowledge that he had been enabled to do his duty, and by tidings of one triumph after another gained by the arms of Prussia.

Fritz was at length able to leave the hospital, but he was too lame to rejoin the army. He had to go back with his mother to their poor home, which would be poorer, Fritz thought, than ever; for he was too weak for labour, and while his mother had been nursing him, she could not earn money by work.

On a morning in September, Frau Arnt and her wounded son returned to their native village. Fritz, weak and lame, had to lean on his mother’s arm for support, as the two walked the short distance from the railway station.

“Strange that Wilhelm should not have been here to welcome us!” observed the widow. “He cannot have received my note to tell of our coming.”

“Don’t let us pass our old cottage, mother,” said Fritz faintly. “I have never liked to go near it since Carl Gesner turned us out of it.”

“Nay, my son; we must take the shortest path home,” said the widow. “And as for Carl Gesner, have you not told me how freely you have forgiven him?”

Turning a corner of the road as she spoke, the old cottage lay straight before her.

“Why, there is Carl Gesner himself,” exclaimed Fritz, “nailing something to the wall!”

“And Wilhelm helping him in his work!” cried the widow, in great surprise.

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Wilhelm turned suddenly round, and, at the sight of her and his brother, uttered a loud exclamation. The boy then bounded towards them, his eyes sparkling with joy at Fritz’s return, and with another joy the cause of which he had yet to keep a secret.

It was not a secret long. The glad exclamation uttered by Wilhelm drew the attention of Carl Gesner, whose back had been turned. The moment that he saw Fritz Arnt he hastened towards him.

“My brother-soldier, my brave young preserver, welcome!” cried Carl, holding out his hand; and Fritz would not now refuse to exchange a cordial grasp with the man whom he once had hated. “I joined the army soon after you did,” continued Carl Gesner. “Like yourself, I have had to leave it on account of my wounds, though my recovery has been more rapid than yours. You look weary, but rest is at hand. Here is your home; it is put into perfect repair. Let us enter it now together.”

“_Our_ home!” exclaimed Fritz and his mother in a breath.

“Yes, yours to the end of your days,” said Carl Gesner. “Frau Arnt, I owe to your noble boy my life; and more than my life. I do not attempt to repay my debt by the gift of his father’s cottage, which I would that you had never left. I but show that I acknowledge that debt. You will find the place improved,” he added, more cheerfully. “We have been planting creepers to train up the wall; and I have had a board painted, to be hung up just below the lattice, to serve as a memorial of the battle in which Fritz and I fought side by side.”

Carl Gesner took up the board as he spoke, and turned it so that all could see the gilded letters upon it. Fritz glanced at the inscription, then at his mother, and smiled. Was it not strange that Carl Gesner should have happened to choose for the motto on the wall of the cottage the very words which had had such a deep effect on the heart of Fritz? There they were, to shine brightly from henceforth on his happy home, the parting words of his mother,—

It is God who giveth the Victory.

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BEARING BURDENS.

“_BEAR ye one another’s burdens_,” said David Jones to himself, repeating the text as he walked home from church. “Our pastor has made it very plain. In this world, he says, every soul has some burden of sorrow or trial to bear, and every one who loves God must try to help his neighbour to bear it. Now it is clear enough that the squire does this when he gives blankets and coals to the poor at Christmas; and our parson does this, for every one in trouble is sure to go straight to him; but I can’t see how a boy like me is to do it. I can’t give like the squire, or talk like the parson; yet I should like to help to bear some one’s burden; for, as it was said in the sermon, it is a blessed thing to do anything for the Lord who has done everything for us; and when we help a poor neighbour for His sake, He counts it as done to Himself. I’ll pray God to show me some way of bearing another’s burdens.”

So before David went to rest that night, he made a little simple prayer that God would give him some work, however small, to do for Him, and let him be useful to others.

The first thought of David, when the bright rays of the sun awoke him on Monday morning, was,—“Here is another day; I hope that it will not pass over without my helping some one to bear his burden;” and again he turned the thought into a prayer. While David was putting on his clothes, an idea came into his mind,—

“Poor old Mrs. Crane, she is almost bent double with age, and hard work it is for her to draw up water from her well. She is a good old woman, Mrs. Crane, and was always ready to help others before she grew so feeble. I’ll have time, before I set out for school, to draw up a pail of water and carry it to her door. Won’t it be a nice surprise to her, when she comes out to draw, to find the water all ready! Old age is her burden—I can help her a little to bear it.”

David was soon off to the well. He let down the bucket and filled it; and as he turned the windlass to raise it again, a very sweet thought came into the mind of the boy. “Our Lord asked the woman of Samaria to draw water for Him, and she did not do it; yet what an honour it would have been to her—had she been a queen—to have drawn water for the Son of God! Now the Lord said, _Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto Me_;” so I really am doing what the woman would not do,—I am drawing water for the blessed Saviour; for I am sure that Mrs. Crane is His servant, and so, working for her, I am working for Him.”

The boy cheerfully placed the pail of water at the door of Mrs. Crane, and soon after set out for school, carrying with him his dinner of bread and cheese, wrapped up in a bit of brown paper. “I am glad that I have done one little kind act to-day,” thought David; “but it does not seem very likely that I shall be able to do any other.”

He very soon found that he was wrong. There are so many burdens, great and small, in the world, that even a child who is on the look-out for an opportunity of doing good, will not wait long before he find one.

David overtook on the road little Steeney Clark, who was slowly walking towards school.

“Good morning, Steeney,” cried David. “Why do you look so dull and sad?”

“’Cause I’m sure Mr. Day will punish me again,” answered the poor dull boy, who was always getting into trouble with the master at his school. “I didn’t know my lesson yesterday, I don’t know it to-day, I don’t think as I ever shall know it!” and the boy rubbed his forehead hard, as if he fancied that he could make his wits brighter by rubbing.

“Let’s see what you have to learn,” said David. “Maybe if you and I go over it together as we walk along, you may understand it a bit better. Pluck up a brave heart, Steeney. You know ‘perseverance conquers difficulties,’ and ‘slow and steady wins the race.’”

It was very cheering to poor Steeney to have some one to help and encourage him, instead of laughing at his natural dulness. David was one of the sharpest boys in the school, but he did not despise his poor young companion for not being so clever as himself. As the two walked on together, David explained all the difficulties of the lesson so clearly to Steeney, that the dull face of the boy brightened. He was able at last to master the task—he would not be set down as a hopeless dunce by his master. David entered the school-room feeling very happy. He had helped a fellow-creature again to bear a burden.

“How pale Mr. Day looks,” thought David, as the schoolmaster stood up behind his desk and rapped with the ruler to command silence. Mr. Day was not a great favourite with the boys, for he was sometimes severe, and easily put out of temper. The truth was that his work was too much for him, as any one might have seen by looking at his thin worn face with its deep furrow between the brows. Mr. Day would have liked David for his quickness in learning, but for the trouble which he gave by his love of frolic and fun; for David was a very merry boy, and could scarcely keep quiet in school-time. He would drum on a desk, or kick on the floor, and set the other boys laughing. David had never seen much harm in this, though it had often brought him into a scrape with the master; but it struck him this day for the first time that it was not fair to a tired hard-worked master to add to the labour of teaching.

“Mr. Day looks as if he’d a mighty heavy burden to bear, and I’m afraid I’ve often helped to make it heavier. I’ll try and be quiet and steady to-day, and set a good example to the boys about me,” thought David.

He kept his resolution; and glad indeed would he have been that he had done so, had he known with what an aching heart and aching head the poor master had begun his day’s work. Mr. Day had private griefs, about which his pupils knew nothing, which sorely imbittered his life. He was also subject to racking headaches, which the noise of a school-room increased to such a painful degree, that he would long before have given up his office, had he not had a wife and children to support.

“I fear that I cannot stand this work much longer,” poor Mr. Day had said to himself that morning. He was like a weary pack-horse dragging a weight beyond its strength up a steep hill; and, from mere thoughtlessness, his pupils had often acted like boys dragging on behind. But things went on better on this Monday; and Mr. Day told his wife as they sat down to dinner that he had had much less worry than usual with the boys. He did not guess the cause of the relief—that one of his best scholars had been on that day helping to bear his burden.

David Jones, as I have said, had brought with him his dinner of bread and cheese, as his home was at some distance from the school. He sat down under a hedge with a good appetite to enjoy his simple meal. Scarcely had David begun it, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he saw a ragged half-starved-looking child, wistfully watching him as he ate.

“I dare say that poor little creature has had no breakfast to-day,” thought David, “and maybe no supper last night. Should I not be doing a little thing to please my Lord if I shared my dinner with her?”

He broke off a piece of bread, and, smiling, held it out to the girl, who eagerly ran forward to get it, and ate it as if she were famished.

“And there’s a bit of the cheese too,” said David kindly, watching the hungry girl’s enjoyment with a pleasure which made his own scanty meal appear like a feast. David knew well that our best works _deserve no reward from God_, yet he could not but recall with joy the gracious promise to those who feed the poor: _They cannot recompense thee; for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just_.

When afternoon lessons were over, David, whistling as he went, set out on his homeward way. “It is a strange thing,” thought he, “but whenever we try to bear other people’s burdens, it seems as if our own hearts grew lighter and lighter!”

As David passed by an orchard, divided from the road by a rough stone wall, he heard a voice calling to him, and came up to Owen Pell—a boy of about his own age—who was looking up at the fine ripe fruit hanging almost over the wall.

“I say, Davy; lend me a hand. I think I can climb over here.” He was already mounting the wall. “Let’s fill our pockets with apples. Don’t they look tempting and nice?”

“Nice or not, they’re not ours,” replied David, who remembered that God’s commandment, _Thou shalt not steal_, is broken not only by robbers who take a man’s purse, but by boys who take his apples.

“We’ll soon make ’em ours,” laughed Owen. “If you don’t choose to climb yourself—though I know you’re active as a kitten—just lend me your stick, and I’ll knock some fruit off from that bough.”

“No, no, Owen,” said David; “leave the apples alone. Farmer Ford does not grow them for you or for me. I’ll neither pluck nor help you to pluck them.”

“Oh, indeed!” cried the angry Owen. “You’re afeard of a thrashing from the farmer, are you?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid of,” said David, turning quickly away; for he felt his passion rising, and was much inclined to use his stick in a very different way from that which the insolent boy had requested, by knocking him down instead of the apples.

“I can’t bear that Owen,” muttered David to himself. “How he is yelling after me, calling me all sorts of bad names, just because I won’t join him in theft!”

Before David reached his home, he came on a wide tract of common, and noticed a number of ducks splashing about in a pool half hidden by rushes.

“Why, these are Mrs. Pell’s ducks, that her boy Owen ought to be watching on the common, instead of hunting after apples. I heard her scolding him yesterday for leaving them out so late, and promising him a sound beating if any should stray and get lost. There’s Brown’s big dog coming this way; he has had a mind to a duckling for supper before now. If Owen does not keep a better look-out, it’s not many of the brood that he’ll ever drive home. What a scrape he’ll be in! When Mrs. Pell promises a beating, she is certain to keep her word. Well, let Owen be beaten,—what do I care!”

That was David’s first thought; but a more generous one succeeded. “I might drive home these ducks for Owen, and keep them and him out of trouble. To be sure, he deserves nothing from me; but are we not told to be kind even to the unthankful and the evil? I should think that God is pleased when we bear the burdens of our friends; more pleased when we bear the burdens of strangers; but most pleased of all when, for His sake, we show kindness to those who have done us a wrong.”

In the meantime, Owen Pell had had cause to regret that he had neglected his mother’s ducks to go after the farmer’s apples. Owen was not an active boy. In struggling to climb up the wall, he missed his footing, and came down with a heavy bang on the back of his head. He had just scrambled on his feet again, bruised and crying with pain, when who should ride up to the spot but Farmer Ford, with a great horse-whip in his hand!

“What are you crying for?” called out the farmer.

“I’ve had a tumble,” whined the frightened boy.

“Climbing my wall to get at my apples! I’ll give you something to cry for!” and the rough farmer bestowed two or three sharp cuts with his lash on poor Owen, which made him yell with the smart, and sent him running home in such haste to escape from the farmer’s whip, that he never once thought of the ducks, till he saw his mother—a tall, bony woman—standing with a broom in her hand at the gate of her little garden.

“Where are the ducks?” shouted she.

Owen stopped, breathless and gasping, and looked around in dismay. Evening was closing in; his ducks had wandered he knew not whither. Mrs. Pell came angrily towards him. “I told you yesterday,” she exclaimed, raising the broomstick, “that if one of them ducks was lost—”

“None are lost!—none are lost!” called out a cheerful voice near; and from behind a knoll covered with furze, which had hidden him from view, appeared David Jones, driving home the ducks for Owen.

“Well, Davy, you’re a good-natured boy if ever there was one!” cried Mrs. Pell, her hard features relaxing into a kindly look. “Owen has escaped a beating this once, but next time he shall not be so easily let off. You look tired and heated, Davy,” she added. “Just step into my cottage and rest; and if you’d like a sup of new milk and a slice of plum-bread, you’ll be heartily welcome to both. There’s none for you,” she said sharply to Owen. “Go and shut up those ducks.”

David glanced at the boy as he slunk away. “I’m glad,” he thought, “that I did a good turn to that poor fellow, and saved him a beating.”

“You’ll always get on well in the world, Davy,” observed Mrs. Pell, as she cut for him a large slice of her home-made plum-bread. “You always keep steady to your duty, and you make friends wherever you go.”

Mrs. Pell was right. David passed through boyhood, youth, and manhood, prospering in what he undertook, till he became a wealthy farmer. Always ready to help others, he found others ready to help him. He made many friends on earth, but it was through earnestly seeking to please an Almighty Friend above. David had grown rich; and a noble use he made of his riches. The more he gained, the more he gave; and truly it appeared that the more he gave, the more he had. When David Jones had built the new aisle to the church, and set up a village lending-library, sent twenty pounds at once to the Bible Society, pensioned several poor widows, and feasted a hundred school children,—he might smile at the remembrance of the day when he had begun his work for God by such things as filling an old woman’s pail, feeding a hungry little girl, and driving home ducks from the common. But perhaps the kind acts of the penniless boy were as pleasing in the sight of God as the great gifts of the rich farmer; for they both sprang from the same motive,—a desire to show grateful love to his Lord by bearing the burdens of others.

FINIS

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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).