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Title: The story of a Hessian

A tale of the revolution in New Jersey

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: February 4, 2026 [eBook #77860]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1877

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77860

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A HESSIAN ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE

STORY OF A HESSIAN.

A TALE OF THE

REVOLUTION IN NEW JERSEY

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR,"

"GRANDMOTHER BROWN," ETC.

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PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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WESCOTT & THOMSON                                      HENRY B. ASHMEAD

Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada.                             Printer, Philada.

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

A WOLF-HUNT

CHAPTER II.

IN THE CHURCHYARD

CHAPTER III.

THE COUNT'S VISIT

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISCHIANZA

CHAPTER V.

A DOOR OPENED

CHAPTER VI.

THE BEAR

CHAPTER VII.

NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FOES

CHAPTER VIII.

NEWS AND PLANS

CHAPTER IX.

NONNENWALD

CHAPTER X.

CONCLUSION

THE

STORY OF A HESSIAN.

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CHAPTER I.

A WOLF-HUNT.

ON a certain bright October morning, in the year 1779, a gay train set out from the princely hunting-lodge of Nonnenwald. This lodge was built under the shadow of an outlying spire of the great Thuringerwald, a range of mountains to the south-east of the dominions of the prince to whom it belonged. It was, in fact, a small Schloss or castle, a part of which was quite ruinous and overgrown with ivy and brambles. This part of the building was made of dark stone taken from a quarry near at hand. A couple of its towers were in good preservation, and showed signs of being inhabited, while a two-story wing, evidently quite new and built of brick, looked awkward and uncomfortable beside its sombre old neighbour. Even with this addition, the lodge would accommodate very few people—a circumstance which made it something of a favourite with its owner. The lodge of Nonnenwald belonged to the hereditary prince or landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, and he liked now and then to escape to it from the splendours of his magnificent court, to indulge in the pursuits of hunting and fishing in company with a few special friends.

The Thuringerwald swarmed with every species of game. Wild boars abounded, and there was a somewhat mythical story that the great wild bull of Europe—the urus—was still to be met in its deeper recesses. Wildcats, bears, and lynxes, made their homes on the rocky ledges, and the great gray wolves ran down the deer and boars, and now and then made an incursion into the cultivated country. Such an incursion had just taken place, early as it was in the year, and many cattle and sheep had been destroyed in the fields about Nonnenwald. Nay, the animals had entered the village itself, and had killed a calf belonging to Gertrude Reinhart, who lived in the little stone house near the churchyard where was the deserted blacksmith's forge. It was the report of this incursion which had brought down the prince and his train, and a fine week's sport was in anticipation.

As the gay train, with the prince in the midst, wound their way through the street of the little village, it was met by a train of a very different description arriving from the opposite direction. First came the Lutheran pastor of the little church in his gown, then time coffin—a child's coffin decked with a wreath of everlasting flowers and carried on a bier. Then came the mourning family, the mother leaning on the arm of a tall gray-haired man and leading a little boy by the hand. A boy of about fifteen, and a girl somewhat younger, followed hand in hand, and a few neighbours brought up the rear. They came slowly up the hill, giving the hunting-train plenty of time to halt and draw up to the side of the road near the church, which they did with some trouble, for the horses were very restive and unmanageable, and the great wolf-hounds bayed and howled and strained furiously at their slips, as if they already scented their savage game.

"A bad omen for our chase," said a young gentleman who rode near the prince.

The prince frowned. He had just been thinking the same thing, but it did not please him to have the thought put into words. He made the sign of the cross. It was a new accomplishment, and he was rather proud of it.

"Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!" said he, piously. And then he frowned again, for he thought he saw a glance of derision pass between his two young cousins, Victor and Maurice of Nassau. "Whose is the funeral, Franz?"

"'Tis the youngest son of Gertrude Reinhart—the woman whose calf was killed the other night," answered Franz the huntsman, a man who had grown gray in the service of the landgrave and his father. "The lad was an innocent—a witless child," he added. "He crept out at evening to see the new calf, and the wolves fell upon the poor creature and killed it before his eyes. They would have done the same by him, but the poor innocent had sense enough to climb upon the roof of the forge, or else the angels set him there. Who knows?"

"Angels do not interfere for the salvation of heretics, my good Franz," said the prince, pompously.

"Humph!" answered Franz, with little respect, as it seemed, either for the speech or the speaker. "Anyhow, he was found on the roof."

"But the angels could not have put him there; do you think so, my father?" he asked, turning to a dark gentleman who rode at his left hand.

"I understand that the lad was an innocent, or witless child," answered the priest, gravely, though with a little twinkle in his eye; "in which case such an interference might have taken place."

"Go on, Franz," said the prince. "What was the end of the matter?"

"The end was that the villagers heard the noise and turned out with what arms they had, and Hans and myself came down with the dogs and drove the brutes away," answered Franz. "The poor lad was not hurt, but so frightened that he never held up his head again. It is a sore blow to poor Gertrude, who was bound up in him."

"Why, he could never be anything but an encumbrance to her; he would never have earned his own living," said the prince. "She ought to be thankful to be rid of such a trouble."

The prince did not mean to be hard-hearted, but he was rather stupid and ignorant even for a German prince of that time, and he really thought so.

"I fancy women are not often glad to part with their children," said the priest, gravely, "and I have observed that they cling most to those who most need their care."

"Here they come," said Count Maurice, and as the little funeral train reached the place where the riders had drawn up, he took off his hat.

The other gentlemen did the same, and even the prince raised his beaver, almost, as it seemed, against his will.

"Poor woman! What a tragedy is in her face!" observed Count Maurice, in an undertone, to his next neighbour. "Is she a widow, I wonder?"

"She might as well be," answered old Franz, on hearing the question. "Her husband is in America, and she has heard no word from him for three long years. Poor Gertrude was one of the fairest and sweetest matrons in all the Thuringerwald, but she is sadly changed, poor thing."

"I dare say. Do you know her, then?"

"She is my grand-niece."

"And did her husband go against her will?"

"I fancy nobody waited to find out what her will was, or his, either," answered the old man, dryly. "He had no time even to bid farewell to his family."

The prince moved uneasily on his horse as he overheard the words.

"Who is the man on whose arms the woman leans?" he asked. "I have never seen him before."

"He does not live about here, though he is a not unfrequent visitor," said Franz. "He is one of the Moravian ministers from Herrnhut, and goes about the country teaching and preaching where he pleases. The folks look on him as a prophet or saint. They call him the consoler, and say he is sure to turn up where there is any great grief or trouble."

"Well, gentlemen, we may as well ride on," said the prince.

He would have infinitely preferred to return home, only he was afraid of being laughed at for his superstition. Not that any one (unless it might be Count Maurice) would have ventured to do so to his face, but he knew very well they would not hesitate behind his back. He was especially jealous of his two young visitors, the counts Victor and Maurice of Nassau, who had been much at the court of Frederick the Great, and were believed to be infected by the new French philosophy. He made the sign of the cross again—rather awkwardly, for he never could remember where to begin—and the train moved on.

The funeral was over, and the neighbours who had lingered at the stone cottage ceased their well-meant attempts at consolation and went their way home. Gertrude Reinhart had gone through the funeral services with dry eyes and compressed lips. She had not shed a tear since her boy died. With the same outwardly composed face she was engaged in preparing supper for her children, when she was disturbed by a knock at the door. With a movement of impatience she opened it. There stood the priest whom we saw in the morning, and at some little distance behind him the young count Maurice.

"You are the widow Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning?" said the priest, kindly.

"I am Gertrude Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning," answered Gertrude, briefly, for she was in no mood for ceremony. "Whether I am a widow or not, Heaven only knows. What is your business with me? It must needs be pressing, since you disturb with it the house of mourning."

"I beg your pardon," answered the priest, gently. "I understood you were a widow. Forgive me if I have hurt you. My errand is to bring you this money from His Serene Highness, who was witness of your trouble this morning and desires to help you."

Gertrude's cheek flushed and her eyes blazed with sudden fire.

"Go back to him who sent you and tell him from me that his money may perish with him," she cried. "Shall I take the price of my husband's blood from my husband's murderer?" She seemed about to say more, but checked herself, and turning away busied herself once more in her household work.

The priest remained standing a moment, as if uncertain what to do, when Gertrude again turned toward him with a somewhat softened expression.

"I am wrong, reverend sir," said she. "Doubtless you mean kindly, and I thank you, but I can take no gold from the prince—not if I and mine were starving. I cannot take it from one who sent my husband and the father of my children to perish in the forests or murdered in cold blood by the cruel, bloodthirsty Americans."

"Nay, there you are wrong, my poor soul!" said Count Maurice, who had caught Gertrude's words. "Let me comfort you, then. The Americans are not cruel to their prisoners, but treat them with great kindness and humanity. I was myself in America for a year at the beginning of the war, and know what I say to be true."

"In America did you say, sir?" exclaimed the little seven-year-old Gustaf Reinhart, pulling away his hand from his sister's and springing forward. "Oh, did Your Highness know my father? He has gone to America, and we have never heard from him since. Did you know my dear father? Oh, say that he is alive, and I will show you where to find the prettiest crystals in all the Thuringerwald and will give you my tame sparrow-hawk."

The young soldier's proud moustache quivered a little, and he seemed to have some trouble in finding his voice to answer, as he stroked the little fair head of the child who was looking so anxiously up into his face.

"My dear little boy, I did not know your father from a thousand others," said he, kindly. "I was only a short time in the army before I was called home, but this much I can tell you: The Americans are white people and Christians like ourselves, and, as I said, treat their prisoners with kindness. The stories which were told of their putting all the Hessians to death were groundless fabrications."

"I thought they were all wild savages," said Gustaf.

"There are plenty of savages, and wild enough," answered Count Maurice. "They are, indeed, more cruel and bloodthirsty than so many wolves; but they are not fighting against the British, but for them, more is the shame for those who let them loose on the helpless women and children.—But I pray you take comfort, dame," he added, turning once more to Gertrude. "Your husband may be killed like another, but, again, he may escape as well as another; and as I said, if he falls into the hands of the Americans, he will be well treated. Nay, he may perhaps return before long, since I have heard that the war is likely soon to come to an end. There, now! I have made you cry, when I meant to comfort you," said the count, with a young man's natural dismay, as Gertrude burst into a passion of tears. "Oh how sorry I am!"

"You have done her all the good in the world," said the more experienced priest, drawing the young man away. "The people tell me that she has never shed one tear in all her troubles. She will weep the burden from her heart, and sleep to-night in peace. 'Tis a pity the poor soul is a heretic. She might else find comfort in the offices of the Church."

"Like our royal host," said Count Maurice, with a shrug of his shoulders and as much of a sneer as his amiable face was capable of. "It is to be hoped he will spend some of the money he got of the king of England for these same offices for the benefit of his soldiers killed in America."

"For heretics?" asked the priest, apparently more amused than shocked at his companion's remark.

"When people send heretics to war, it seems to me that they should pay the damage," answered Count Maurice, lightly; and then, in a graver tone, "Say what we may, this selling of one's own subjects to be butchered for money is a horrible business."

"I agree with you there."

"Then you won't report the poor woman's wild words to His Serene Highness?" said Count Maurice, rather anxiously.

"Not I," answered the priest, with some emphasis, "nor yours, either."

"Oh, as to that, my princely cousin knows my mind on the subject. We all but quarrelled on the point some years ago; and only to please my father, I should not be here now. But as the prince's confessor—"

"I am not his confessor," interrupted the priest; "and if I were, confessors are not all-powerful. I shall do nothing to injure yonder poor soul, you may be sure. But what to do with this money. I dare not return it lest he should ask questions. I believe the best way will be to give it to some religious house to pray for the soul of the poor innocent who was buried to-day."

"And much good that will do him!" thought Count Maurice. But he had too much real respect for his companion to treat his opinions with contempt, however far they might be from his own, and the two walked back to the lodge in silence.

CHAPTER II.

IN THE CHURCHYARD.

THOSE of my readers who have read any history of the American Revolution are familiar with the fact that George III., at that time king of England, hired many German soldiers to help fight his battles, and that these soldiers were usually known as Hessians. These men were not always or often enlisted of their own free will. They were simply hired, or rather bought, at so much a head from their native sovereigns, the princes of the smaller German states.

The princes or landgraves of Hesse had the honour of originating this profitable line of business in the person of Landgrave William V., who fought on the Swedish side under the great Gustavus during the Thirty Years' War, and got himself into very hot water with his superiors of the German empire. William VIII., father of Frederick II., lent his forces to the British during what is known as the "Seven Years' War," thereby enriching his purse and impoverishing his dominions to a great extent. William, indeed, always fought with his own men, exposed to much the same hardships and dangers, and won honour as a brave and skilful soldier.

But Landgrave Frederick had no notion of running any such foolish risks. He liked his ease too well—his hunting-expeditions and concert-rooms and collections of pictures and other elegant amusements. Moreover, he was very busy learning a new religion. Ever since the days of his ancestor Philip I., surnamed the Generous, who came to the throne in 1509, Hesse-Cassel and its dependencies had been mostly Protestant. But Frederick took it into his wise head to become a Roman Catholic, and a very devout one, though it is but just to say that he never interfered with the religion of his subjects. So he stayed quietly at home and patronized art, while thousands of his subjects, farmers, labourers, artisans, miners, and so forth, the best of the nation, were carried away across the seas to fight for a people they did not know against a people who had done them no harm.

If the men had gone with their own consent, it would not have been so bad, but in many cases they had been kidnapped—carried off from their farms and workshops, from market and church, without being allowed to set their affairs in order or bid their families farewell. Three millions of pounds—seven pounds four and fourpence for each man, and as much more for every one killed—did the landgrave receive from the British king. He spent the money, as I have said, in keeping up a splendid court, but meantime in many places the fields lay unfilled because there were none but boys and old men to plough them; the wolves and bears increased and grew bolder and bolder.

The condition of the families whose heads had been taken away was of course very pitiable. Even when, as in the case of Caspar Reinhart's household, there was no lack of bread, there were long weeks and months and years of slow, sickening suspense and anxiety. Many of the men did not know how to write or had no means of writing, and those who were able sent home reports which were anything but encouraging. It was commonly reported among them that the American soldiers gave no quarter, that they were more cruel and vindictive than the Indians themselves, killing without mercy all the prisoners who fell into their hands. These reports were no idle rumours picked up at second hand: they were deliberate lies fabricated and circulated by the British and German officers among their ignorant troops. The Hessians who were taken prisoners were utterly astonished to find themselves treated with kindness both by their captors and the people of the country.

Caspar Reinhart had been the owner of a little farm adjoining the village of Nonnenwald. He kept a few cows, some sheep and goats, and cultivated some fields of rye and oats, while a warm and sheltered corner of the domain held a flourishing orchard of apple and cherry trees. The profits of his farm, which, with all his industry and Gertrude's economy, were not large, were greatly increased by his trade of blacksmith and wheelwright. Nobody could shoe a restive horse or tame a wild and frightened colt so well in all the district, and lame and disabled carts and wagons were brought to him from far and near. He also possessed considerable skill as a carver; which skill he practised by the fire in the long winter evenings, making wooden bowls and spoons and heads for spinning-wheels, and he had made a memorial tablet to his mother which was an ornament to the little church and the object of admiration to all the village. But his forge was silent and falling to pieces, his carving-tools lay hidden in the cupboard of Philip's bedroom. Only a few sheep and two cows remained of his stock, and the orchard was suffering for want of the master's hand, for Caspar was away in America, and his wife had heard no word from him for three long years.

Gertrude remained for a moment or two standing where her visitor had left her. The children looked on from their corner, hardly knowing whether to be terrified or relieved by their mother's burst of weeping. Presently she wiped her eyes and turned to them:

"Philip and Margaret, you may go and drive up the cows and sheep, lest the wolves should come down again. Take Gustaf with you, and do not remain out after sunset."

Gertrude's least word was law to the children, and without speaking a word they hastened to obey.

The cattle were soon secured in the strong and high enclosure near the house made to protect them in winter. This done, Margaret, stole up softly and peeped through the window of the cottage.

"The mother is on her knees praying and weeping," said she, turning with an awestruck face to her companions. "Do not let us disturb her. I heard the good brother Gotthold say he would give a great deal to see her weep, and so did Aunt Lisa."

"That strange gentleman who came with the young count said the same," observed Gustaf. "But where shall we go, Greta?"

"The sun is not near setting," replied his sister; "let us go up to the churchyard."

The church of Nonnenwald stood on a little rocky eminence somewhat apart from the village. It was a very ancient structure, and there were ruins about it—very deep, dark vaults, grass-grown mounds, and crumbling walls which seemed to show that the existing building had once been part of a larger structure. There was a dim tradition that a nunnery had once occupied the hill, which had been destroyed in some unusual and awful manner for the wickedness of the inhabitants—some said by an earthquake, others by a waterspout descending from the clouds.

Be that as it might, the scene was peaceful enough now. The sun was sinking, and sent his rays through the branches of an old oak which still retained many of its leaves and cast a chequered shade over the short green turf. Most of the graves were humble grass-grown mounds, marked, if at all, only by a rude headstone or a wooden cross, but there were a few stone tombs and monuments, very old and moss-grown. On one of these was a recumbent figure, but so weather-worn and bespattered with lichen that no one could have told whether it was meant for a man or a woman. Tradition, however, had given it the name of the Good Lady, and averred that it had once stood in the convent church and was miraculously spared when the rest of the structure was destroyed. Near it was the entrance to one of those vaults of which I have spoken—a low arch partly stopped with stones.

The children bent their steps toward the old oak, where, under the shelter of some nut-bushes, lay the little new-made grave. It had been neatly covered with sods, and some kind hand had laid upon it a garland of late flowers.

"I wonder where Fritz is now?" said Philip, in a low voice.

"Singing with the angels," answered little Gustaf, confidently. "I asked Brother Gotthold last night, and he said so."

"Then I am sure he is very happy," said Philip. "You know how he always loved music." He was silent a minute, and then added, in a still lower voice, "I wonder if he has found father?"

"Father is not dead," said Margaret, abruptly; "so how should Fritz find him?"

Philip shook his head:

"I wish I could think so, Greta dear. But you know how long it is since we have heard a word—never since he sailed—"

"What of that?" interrupted Margaret, almost harshly. "Was not Uncle Franz away more than seven years? And had not every one given him up for dead? Yet he came back, and father will come back—I know he will."

"How do you know?" asked little Gustaf. "Who told you? Did Brother Gotthold?"

"No, but Brother Gotthold thinks he may be alive, for all that; and you heard what the young count said last night. But that is not the reason. I cannot tell you, but somehow or other I do know that my father is alive, and that I shall see him again."

Philip shook his head sadly, but he did not argue the point.

After standing a few moments in silence, he said, suddenly, "Margaret, do you think my mother would let me have the oak log that lies under the shed at the forge?"

"I dare say," answered Margaret, coming back as it were from a long distance to answer the question. "At any rate, you can ask her. What will you do with it?"

"I should like to carve a cross for Fritz—a cross with a garland, like that we saw in the churchyard at Fulda. I would make the wreath all of lilies and spring flowers such as Fritz loved. I can see just how to do it;" and Philip's eyes brightened.

"And an inscription telling how he died," said Margaret.

"No, I think not, Greta dear," answered her brother. "Why keep up such a sad story? The darling innocent is now with the angels, as Gustaf said, and why fix our thoughts on his painful journey?"

"I 'will' think of it! I will 'never' forget it!" answered Margaret, vehemently. "It is all the fault of the landgrave. It is he who killed Fritz. If my father had not been sent away, it would never have happened. But you, Philip, think of nothing and care for nothing but your books and your carving. If you remembered father as I do, and how he was carried away, you would not be so easy about the matter as you are. It is not hard to be quiet when one does not care."

Philip winced as if some one had hurt him.

"You forget that I was older than you when father went away," said he, in the gentle voice which was one of his characteristics. "True, I had not seen him for a year, because I was with my uncle in Fulda, but I remember him perfectly. I was not here when he went, and I never knew exactly how it was. Did they take him from the forge?"

"No; it was from the church," answered Margaret. "It was All Saints' day, and all the village was in the church. The new panels which my father had carved for the pulpit had just been put up, I remember. Just as the pastor finished his discourse, we heard outside the tramp of soldiers and the clash of muskets, and then the harsh voice of the officer,—

"'Let not a man escape!'

"We thought, to be sure, they had come to look for some deserter or criminal, and everybody looked about them, but there was no stranger in the church. Just as the service was ended, the officer and some of his men entered. I can't tell you all; it was too dreadful," said Margaret, covering her face. "They took away every able-bodied man—even poor Maurice, the blind widow's son. It was of no use to struggle. Hans Webber did so. His wife was very ill and had a little baby, and he would pot go. He snatched up a club and fought the men who came to take him, and, Philip, they shot him down like a dog, there by the tomb of the Good Lady. No wonder the grass has never grown there. Poor Magdalen has been mad ever since."

"No wonder!" said Philip, with a shudder. "Was that what made an innocent of little Fritz?"

"Yes, I suppose so. All the women said so."

"And that is the reason my mother never comes to the church?"

"She has never set her foot in the churchyard till to-day. It was the same in other places, or worse. And all that our landgrave might have money to keep a grand court and buy pictures and build a fine chapel like that yonder at the Schloss, with gold crucifixes, and altar-cloths worked in crystals and pearls, and dressed-up dolls adorned with diamonds!" said Margaret, in a tone of bitter scorn. "Brother Gotthold says the Americans are fighting because they will not have a king or a prince to rule them. I hope they will succeed; and if they do, I will go there and live some day."

"Hush, Greta!" said Philip, looking around him. "Think if some one should hear you!"

"Let them hear!"

"But the mother, sister! You would not add to her troubles? The sun is getting very low," he added; "I think we had better be going home. Where is Gustaf? Here he comes in a hurry. Why, child, what ails you? You are as white as ashes."

Gustaf caught hold of his brother and sister, and held them tight.

"There is something in the vault by the Good Lady's tomb," said the child, in a choked whisper—"something with glaring green eyes that stared at me when I peeped in."

"An owl," said Philip. "You are not afraid of an owl at this time of day, little brother?"

"It was not an owl," whispered the child. "It was big and dark. I could just see it huddled in a corner, and it moved and growled fiercely like a big dog."

Philip and Margaret looked at each other with pale faces as the same thought occurred to both—that one or more of the wolves who had wrought the mischief might have taken refuge in the vaults. At that moment, the wicket of the churchyard was opened, and the old huntsman Franz appeared, leading one of the great wolf-hounds, of which he had a number under his charge—immensely powerful and savage-looking dogs, but gentle and docile enough with friends. Leo especially was an old playmate of Philip's.

The children sprang toward the old man with a feeling of relief.

"What are you doing here, children?" said Franz, roughly, but not unkindly. "It is time you were at home. These are not days when children should be out after dark. I cannot but think the wolves have come near the town again, for the dogs are half crazy. Look at old Leo, how he growls and bristles. One would think he smelt them at this moment. Gently, gently, old fellow! There are no wolves here."

The dog struggled to free himself from his leash, and lifting up his head made the air resound with his yells. He was answered by the doleful braying of the other dogs in kennels at the lodge, and by the howls of all the less aristocratic dogs of the village. The face of the old man darkened.

"The beasts must be at hand," said he, anxiously. "Trust old Leo never to give tongue on a false scent. There, again! Children, hasten home as fast as you can."

"I believe the dog may be right, Uncle Franz," said Philip. "Gustaf saw something in the vault yonder which frightened him."

"It had green glaring eyes and growled," said Gustaf. "I thought it was the wehr-wolf."

"The dog was right," exclaimed the old man, exultingly. "Trust old Leo for telling the truth. Hasten home, Greta; and do you, Philip, run to the lodge and give the alarm. Tell Gaurenz—you will find him at the kennels—that the wolves are in the churchyard. I will keep watch here with the dog. A fine time, truly, when our very graves are not safe from them! Take my pistol from my belt and look at the priming, boy, before you go. They may take a fancy to bolt."

"Do you think there can be more than one?" asked Philip as he carefully renewed the priming of the pistol and loosened his uncle's knife in the sheath, for both the huntsman's hands were fully occupied in restraining the now furious dog.

"I can't say, my boy. For aught I know, the whole pack may have slipped down last night, after the moon set, and hidden themselves in these old holes, ready for an onslaught to-night. They are as wise and cunning as so many kobolds. Away with you now, and give the alarm as you go."

Philip was the fastest runner in all Nonnenwald, and in a few minutes he was at the lodge telling his errand, not to the huntsman, but to the landgrave himself, who was down at the kennels looking at the dogs. In a few minutes the churchyard, late so quiet, was a scene of the wildest commotion.

Franz turned out to be right in his conjecture. Not one, but the whole pack of wolves, had taken refuge in the old vaults, no doubt with the intention of making a midnight foray on the cattle and sheep of the village. The unwillingness of the dogs to pass the churchyard in the morning and their uneasiness during the day were fully explained. Five wolves were killed in the churchyard itself, two were run down by the dogs, and two or three made their escape. It was a memorable occasion for the little village, and Gustaf found himself quite a hero, since, but for his curiosity in prying into the vault, the wolves would probably have remained undiscovered.

Early on the Sunday morning following the hunt, Philip was in the churchyard. He carried in his hands some bunches and garlands of flowers with which to deck the grave of his little brother. He smoothed and pressed down the turf over the hillock, which had been disarranged by the hunters, and in doing so his hand fell on something hard hidden in the long grass by the side of his grandmother's grave. He drew it forth. It was a gold chain, on which was suspended a jewelled locket containing the portrait of a lady beautifully painted on ivory. The back of the locket was enamelled with sundry heraldic devices which Philip did not understand. He stood for a moment looking at the picture in a kind of ecstacy, for Philip loved everything beautiful with a real passion. Then, hearing voices, he dropped chain and locket into his pocket, and turned again to his work as the two counts, Victor and Maurice, entered the churchyard.

"I must take one more look," he heard Count Maurice say, in tones of deep regret. "I cannot bear to give it up."

"I fear you will have to do so," answered his brother. "Doubtless both chain and locket have been picked up by some of the boors about here. Your best chance is to offer a reward for it, though I fear it is too late even for that. I grieve over the loss, for it was our only good likeness of our dear mother. Are you sure you had it on the night of the hunt? You know Count Hanau went away the next day, and I think he has those in his train to whose fingers such a trifle might stick easily enough."

"Yes, but I am quite sure that I had it.—Well, my boy, what will you have of me?"

For Philip had drawn near, and, hat in hand, was evidently waiting to be spoken to.

"Is it a locket and picture that Your Highness has lost?" asked Philip, modestly.

"Yes, a locket and picture of a lady. Have you heard of any such thing being found?"

Philip took the chain and picture from his pocket and placed it in its owner's hand.

"I found it just now in the grass by my brother's grave," said he. "I thought it might belong to some one at the Schloss."

"And what would you have done if you had not found the owner, my boy?" asked Count Victor, for Maurice was for the moment too happy in his recovered treasure to say a word.

"I would have taken it to my uncle Franz the huntsman," answered Philip; "but I am glad to have found it for His Highness, because he was kind to my mother."

"Kind to your mother? When?" asked Count Maurice.

"On the day my little brother was buried," answered Philip. "You told her that the Americans were not cruel. You made her cry, and she has been better ever since."

"A small matter for gratitude!" said Count Maurice. "I remember now. Your father was a recruit. But, my boy, you have done me a great service. This picture is very dear to me. What shall I do for you in return?"

"Give him a gold-piece," said Count Victor; "I dare say he would like to spend it at the fair."

"I do not ask any reward," said Philip, blushing; "only, if I might make so bold—if Your Highness would condescend so far—"

"Oh, you need not make any apologies," said Count Maurice, good-humouredly. "My Highness is no such very grand personage if you come to that, since my whole domain is not very much bigger than your father's farm. But what can I do to give you pleasure?"

"If Your Highness would come to our house again and tell my mother more about America," answered Philip. "What you said the other night did her so much good. Even Brother Gotthold has never been in America, though he is going some day. If Your Highness would but visit us again—"

"I will certainly do so, and that very soon," said Count Maurice. "Meanwhile, do me the favour to spend this gold-piece for anything you may fancy. Nay, you must not refuse. That is not gracious.—The youngster has an independent spirit," he observed to his brother as they turned away and left the churchyard.

"There are plenty more like him," answered Count Victor. "The spirit of independence is in the very air nowadays; and if it is so now, how do you think it will be when the men come home from America? Our countrymen are not all blockheads. They will learn what the Americans are fighting about."

"A good many will not come back," observed count Maurice. "They are deserting by hundreds at a time, I hear, and the country-people are kind to them and afford them shelter and food."

"And small blame to them! Who would not do the same, treated as these poor villagers have been? For my part, I would like to emigrate to America myself, settle on a farm in the wilderness, and follow the laws of Nature among her savage children."

"Or have the laws of Nature follow you in the shape of a sound ague or a country fever," said Count Maurice, laughing, "or perhaps furnish a spectacle to her savage children in their own peculiar manner."

"As well that as the aimless life one lives now—a slave to court formalities and royal etiquette, or, at the best, dancing attendance on old Fritz and observing his humours."

"I would rather be a slave to court formalities than to a Mohawk Indian," said Count Maurice.

"You are not like me, Maurice," said Count Victor. "These things pass lightly over you. You take the good and leave the evil. I wish I had been made like you—or rather, I wish I had never been born at all," said the young man, bitterly.

"And what would become of me without you, my poor Victor, my other self?" said Maurice, pressing his brother's arm. "Remember, I have had no such crushing sorrow as yours. I wish I could comfort you."

"There is no comfort—none—either in heaven or on earth," said Victor, passionately. "Nothing can ever give me back my Emma or undo the wrong which this horrible royal punctilio has done us both."

"Yet Emma herself found comfort," observed Maurice.

"Emma was a believer," answered his brother. "Maurice, I would cut off my right hand before I would say a word to shake the faith of a child in the Christian religion. Those who do so are like a man who should rob another in the desert of his water-skins, promising him wine instead, and then leave him to perish of thirst. But come, we should be returning to the Schloss."

"What say you to going to church?" asked Maurice. "I hear the old missionary is to preach."

Victor agreed, and the brothers returned to the lodge.

CHAPTER III.

THE COUNT'S VISIT.

SERVICE-TIME found the little church of Nonnenwald filled to its utmost capacity, which was not very great, so that some of the men had to sit on the step of the pulpit or find an uneasy perch on the two or three altar-shaped tomb; which made the small space within the walls still smaller. All the country-people came to church, for the tidings of the wolf-hunt had spread far and wide, and every one wished to hear the news and discuss the capture. There was some staring when Gertrude Reinhart in her deep mourning-veil entered the seat which she had not occupied for four years, and more when the counts Maurice and Victor came in and sat down in the pastor's pew. But the staring was nothing to that which ensued when Brother Gotthold, the Moravian missionary, ascended the pulpit in place of the old Lutheran pastor. Such a thing had never happened before during all the fifty years of Doctor Martin Fisher's pastorate.

In a few words Brother Gotthold explained the matter:

"Your respected pastor, I regret to say, is too ill this morning to leave the house; and as it seemed a pity to dismiss the congregation without a discourse, he has asked me to fill his place, which I shall do as well as I am able."

"He may well say that," whispered the schoolmaster to the shoemaker. "I say it is a scandal for a wandering preacher to be asked into the pulpit when there are those in the parish who could fill it with some credit. I don't know what the consistory will say, for my part. It is just an offshoot of French infidelity—that's what it is."

The shoemaker made a motion with his head which might pass either for a nod or a shake, and turned away. He did not care to engage in a whispering conversation under the bright, earnest eyes which looked down from the pulpit. Herr Franck drew himself up with offended dignity, took a large pinch of snuff, and prepared himself to be critical in respect to style and watchful for unsound doctrine.

Nobody else cared to be critical. Brother Gotthold was well known through all the neighbourhood, and a good many glances of congratulation were exchanged. Even Herr Franck could find no fault with the way he went through the opening services. He took for his text the first verses of the fourteenth chapter of John.

"Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.

"In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you."

The discourse was so simple that little Gustaf could understand every word, but it held the attention of the listeners wonderfully. Fat old Farmer Fuchstein, who had regularly slept through every sermon he had attended for over thirty years, kept wide awake all through, and wiped his eyes more than once. The sermon was upon the consolations of the gospel for the bereaved, for the suffering, for the penitent. Many a head was bowed and many an eye dim with tears as the preacher alluded tenderly to those whose friends were far away across the sea; and when he reminded his hearers that the eternal rest was as near in America as in Germany, and that no man could go beyond the reach of his Father's love and protection, there was a universal burst of sobs. Count Maurice himself listened with evident and deep interest; and as for Count Victor, he never took his eyes from the preacher's face. There was a general sigh when the sermon was concluded and the people gathered in the churchyard.

"Call that a sermon?" said Herr Franck. "Where was the deep divinity, the Greek and Latin, and the fine, long, rolling sentences of our doctor? Why, a child could understand every word. I dare say even silly Hans knows what it was about.—Here, Hans, tell me what the minister talked about."

"About heaven," answered the simpleton readily—"the good place where the angels live and there are no schoolmasters."

"Good boy!" exclaimed Farmer Fuchstein, with a great laugh. "But why dost thou think there are no schoolmasters in heaven, Hans?"

"Because nobody cries there," answered Hans. "The preacher says so."

Another laugh followed, and the schoolmaster stalked away greatly offended.

"Such a sermon as 'I' could have given them!" he said to himself. "And nobody so much as thinks of me—not even the pastor. 'Tis an ungrateful world. Not one of these lads but I have whipped all through the alphabet, and yet they are all ready to grin when I am laughed at. But we shall see what the consistory will say."

Count Maurice and his brother walked away arm in arm as usual, but in silence, which was not usual, since Maurice commonly talked for himself and his brother too.

At last Victor said, with a deep sigh,—

"Maurice, I would give all I have in the world to believe what that man said this morning."

"And I would give it for you if such a belief would be a comfort to you. But, Victor, why not find out the preacher and talk with him?"

"I have talked with so many, and they never did me any good," said Victor.

"I don't remember ever seeing you study the Bible for yourself," said Maurice, simply.

Victor turned an inquiring look on his brother.

"Study the Bible?" he repeated.

"Why, yes. When you wished to learn mathematics, you did not content yourself with talking to professors; you got the books and worked out the problems for yourself. Why don't you do so now? Bibles are not so rare and inaccessible, and you have one."

"I know," said Victor as his brother paused. "I have treasured it, but I never thought of studying it."

They walked on in silence a few minutes, and then Maurice said, in his peculiar matter-of-fact way,—

"After all, Victor, in one way these simple Christian folks have one more chance on their side than we people of advanced ideas."

"One more chance?" answered Victor, rousing himself from abstraction, as usual. "What do you mean?"

"Why, if the French philosophers are right, these people are as well off as we are now, and it will all come to the same thing in the end, since there is no danger that the annihilated philosophers will laugh at them, as somebody says. Nay, in one sense they are better off, since they really do take a good deal of comfort in their belief. But if yonder good missionary and his followers are right, 'we' are making rather an awful mistake. A calculation which has eternity as one of its elements has more need to be correct than a problem in your favourite algebra."

"You are right," said Victor.

"Will you go with me to see the poor woman—Frau Reinhart, I think they call her?" asked Maurice, after another long silence. "This is our last day, you know, and perhaps we may come upon the preacher. I believe he lodges with her."

"Frau Reinhart? Oh yes, the mother of our young friend of the churchyard. Certainly I will go with you. Anywhere rather than to that dinner at the Schloss, with its wine-drinking and stupid jesting, and the two priests watching one's every word and looking like ravens watching over a flock of sheep."

"Oh, come! You are too hard on the good fathers. The elder at least is a kind-hearted man, and very good company. But I am as willing as yourself to escape the dinner. Perhaps the good woman will offer us some refreshment, or we will dine at the little inn. This is the house. Shall we knock?"

"I trust you will do nothing rash, dame," said Count Maurice, somewhat anxiously.

"There is no fear," answered Gertrude; and it was wonderful to see how a bright smile transformed her face. "Have I not these children to think for? But Your Highness' words have given me a new hope; they have revived the life that was well-nigh dead within me. I am strong yet. I and my children can work, and you say no one need want work in America."

"Leisure is much more to seek than work, I do assure you, good dame. Ladies of birth and education in the northern colonies—so I am credibly informed—perform all the menial offices of their households because there are no servants. I have myself dined at the house of a gentleman where the dinner was cooked by the hands of the lady and her daughters, and well cooked too.—And that reminds me to ask for my brother. I dare say he has forgotten that we have had nothing to-day but a crust and a glass of wine."

"If Your Highness would partake of our coarse fare, I should be only too much honoured to prepare refreshments for you," said Gertrude, eagerly. "I have a pie and some sausages which my uncle's wife sent me, and we have cream and fresh butter. If Your Highness could eat black bread—I fear there is none other to be had, but ours is sweet and good."

Count Maurice was a very good-natured man as well as a very fine gentleman in the true sense of those abused words. He loved to give pleasure and he knew how to do it—how to enter into the feelings of those about him. He had no trouble in seeming interested in his fellow-creatures, simply because he really was interested. This was a secret which the landgrave never could understand. He admired his young cousin's easy manners and tried to imitate them, for he really did want his people to like him, but he never succeeded. It was the ox trying to imitate the frolics of the greyhound.

Count Maurice readily and gracefully accepted the hospitality of Gertrude Reinhart, partly because he wished to give her pleasure, and partly because he was hungry and wanted his dinner; consequently, he did so without either awkwardness or condescension.

When the widow called her daughter to help her, Margaret was amazed at the change in her mother's face. It was like the mother she remembered years ago. She wondered what the count could have been telling her.

Meantime, Count Maurice entered into conversation with Philip, looked at and praised his wood-carving, and advised him to study drawing.

"But I have no master," said Philip, doubtfully.

"You have pencil and paper, and you have the things before you. Work at what you have, and the rest will come. The hand which carved this deer's head and this bunch of acorns should soon be able to do better things. But what have we here?"

"It is the design I have been trying to make for a cross to mark my little brother's grave," said Philip; "but it does not satisfy me."

"Philip, you will make an artist," said Count Maurice. "The world will hear of you some day."

"The pastor used to say that of my father," said Philip, flushing high at the unexpected praise. "He said that Providence designed him for an artist, and that he ought to leave his forge and go to the city to study."

"And what said your father?"

"He answered merrily that when Providence had given a man a good trade and a young family, it had given him two things which were meant to be kept together," answered Philip. "My father was the best blacksmith and wheelwright in all the country round. If he had been here, the landgrave's horse would not have spoiled the hunt by falling lame the other day."

Count Maurice smiled. He had a shrewd notion that the landgrave's superstitious dread of the ill omen involved in meeting the funeral had quite as much to do with breaking off the hunt as the lameness of his horse, which nobody perceived but himself.

But he said nothing; and Gertrude having finished her simple preparations, Count Victor was called, and the two brothers satisfied her by making a hearty meal.

"Well, what did your friend the preacher say to you?" asked Maurice of his brother as they were walking homeward. "Something pleasant, to judge by your face."

"Much that was pleasant," answered Victor, "but chiefly he echoed your advice—that I should study the Bible and let alone the works of men for a while.—Maurice, I wondered this morning what had brought us to this place. I think I know now."

That evening Gertrude called her children about her and explained her plan fully to them. A new prospect had opened before her, a new hope arisen in her mind, which made her feel again some of the spring and energy of youth, before misfortune after misfortune had crushed her to the earth. She had heard that in America there was room for every one who wished to work; that many Germans had gone thither already and were prospering; that there were schools and churches and no one to impose arbitrary taxes or carry men away from their families and sell their blood for money.

"It is a good land, and many of our countrymen are there already. We will save what money we can for a year or two, sell what we have here, and go thither."

Margaret's face brightened for a moment, and then fell again.

"But if my father should come back and find us gone?" said she.

"We cannot make any move for two or three years yet," answered her mother. "By that time, we shall have certain news one way or other. The count says every one believes that the war will come to an end before long, and that the Americans are sure to win. We shall need to work hard and save money. We will buy back our cows and—But this is not the time to speak of business," she added, checking herself. "We will talk it all over to-morrow."

"Are you not pleased with the thought of going to America?" said Margaret to Philip as they went to take a last look at the hens and to see that all was secure.

"I am pleased with whatever pleases my mother," answered Philip. "It is good to see her smile once more as she used to do."

"And shall you not like to go to America?"

"I cannot tell that till I know a little more what America is like. His Highness says many fine things about it, and some that are not so fine—about the agues and the wild beasts and the savages."

"Oh, you always look on the dark side."

"And then it is a great undertaking, Greta. We think it a great thing to visit Fulda or Eisenach; and when Uncle Hans went to Frankfort last year, the whole village turned out to see him go. But America is a long way beyond Frankfort."

"And, in short, you mean to spoil and hinder all you can," said Margaret, angrily. "You care for nothing but carving and flowers and making pretty things like a girl. You ought to be the woman and I the man to go out into life."

"And get your head broken the first day with your tongue," said Philip. "'Men' don't talk to each other as you talk to me, Greta. If they did, there would be more quarrels than there are now. There is not a boy in the whole village who would dare to tell me I ought to be a girl."

"I will take that back," said Margaret, rather ashamed. "I know I hurt people's feelings ever so many times; but oh, Philip, if you knew how I mourn for father and for the change in my mother! It makes me desperate. But you don't make any allowance for my troubles. Nobody does!"

"They are not 'my' troubles, I suppose?" said Philip, in the tone which always seemed to become more measured and gentle the more deeply he was moved. "It is nothing to me to go to bed without poor little Fritz, whom I have nursed ever since he was born, who knew and loved me when he knew no one else. Oh, my baby, my innocent darling!" And Philip leaned his head against the door of the henhouse and wept bitterly with those deep, in-drawn sobs which are so dreadful to hear.

Never had Margaret seen him give way so entirely. She had always given herself credit for having far deeper feeling than her brother. She had a kind of violent impatience of grief which made her rebel against it angrily, while Philip never complained and seldom gave way. She said to herself, and found some comfort in saying, that none of them, not even her mother, felt the family calamities as she did; but now she began to have an inkling that she was not, after all, so very superior to her quiet and cheerful brother. She stood silent and awkward, provoked at the pain in her conscience and at Philip for causing it, wishing to comfort him, but not knowing how.

At last, she put her arm round his neck:

"Don't cry so, Philip—don't! You will make yourself sick. Don't you know what Brother Gotthold said this morning? Think how happy the dear little fellow is now, and how you will see him again some day. Yes, I am sure you will."

"I know," answered Philip, checking his sobs and pressing the hand which Margaret put into his; "but oh, Greta, you don't know how I miss him."

There was a little silence, and then Margaret said, anxiously,—

"But, Philip, you won't oppose this plan, will you? Think what it is to see mother smile again!"

"Not only will I not oppose it, but I will do all I can to help it on," answered Philip. "I have already thought of a plan whereby I can earn something in the long evenings that are coming, and to-morrow we will talk it over. It is time to go to bed now."

"And you are not angry with me?" asked Margaret, penitently.

"Oh no," said Philip, cheerfully. "Good-night!"

Margaret crept away to her own little room with an uncomfortable feeling of humiliation and something like self-contempt at her heart. She had always been used to look down on Philip and think that she should have been the eldest son. Philip was always so quiet and cheerful.

"He took things so easily," Margaret said; "nothing seemed to touch him."

In the worst of their dark days, when he had been obliged to come home from Fulda where he had been studying with his uncle, and to give up the idea of going to college—when they had to sell their cows to meet the expenses of the mother's long illness, and when it became known that Fritz would always be an innocent—even then Philip could smile and play with the children, and when he had a little spare time could find pleasure in carving plants and leaves, in gathering crystals and flowers and watching the colours of the sunset.

All these things Greta had set down in her own mind as marks of a frivolous, light-minded disposition. It was she who had to bear the burden of everything, as she said, and she shut her eyes to the fact that Philip quietly and silently took on himself all the more disagreeable parts of the work, both in the house and in the field; that it was Philip who amused Fritz by day and slept with him or oftener watched with him at night, who kept him out of mischief and taught him the few things he was capable of learning.

She had shut her eyes to all these things, as I said, but now they seemed to be suddenly opened. She remembered with a pang of remorse the hundreds of times she had spoken sharply to the poor innocent, how many times she had thrown his stores of pebbles and acorns out of the window and knocked down his block houses, and then she remembered, that last day, how Fritz had begged to go and see the new calf and she had refused to take him because she was engaged in putting the last stitches to a new hood.

"Philip would have laid down his best piece of carving to please the child," she thought.

And then a cold, sick shudder came over her. If she had gone with Fritz in the daytime, perhaps he would not have stolen out at night, and he might have been here now. Philip had known of her refusal, and yet he had never spoken one word of reproach.

Greta had been much in the habit of spending an hour or so before going to bed in dwelling on her grievances and picturing to herself a state of life in which all should be made easy and pleasant—when she should be surrounded by luxuries and splendour, dress in velvet and jewels, and associate with nobles and princes. To-night, however, the hour was spent very differently—in honest repentance, confession, and humiliation of herself before her heavenly Father, in self-examination and comparison of herself with the standard of God's word. This was not one of those gusty paroxysms of exaggerated self-reproach and violent weeping in which she had not seldom indulged when she could not help seeing that she had been in the wrong, and which left her more self-satisfied than before. Now she felt a genuine conviction of her own unworthiness and helplessness, and cried earnestly for help to the Strong. That hour had its influence over Greta's whole life.

Philip, too, had his exercises in his own little room, which he had so long shared with Fritz. This scheme of going to America would, if carried out, be a deathblow to his dearest hope—a hope long cherished in secret, and which had to-day received new life from the words of, Count Maurice: "You should be an artist."

Philip loved everything that was beautiful. That which had been talent and knack in his father, in him rose to something like genius. There lived in the neighbourhood of Fulda a nobleman who had a fine gallery of pictures and statues. He was a good-natured man and not averse to a little gossip now and then with the schoolmaster, Philip's uncle, on his favourite subjects of the odes of Horace and the Greek metres; and finding Philip had a fancy for drawing, he invited the boy to come and see his pictures whenever he liked.

Philip went, and found a new world opened to him. Was it possible that he could ever make anything like that gladiator sinking and dying there in the marble—like that wonderful Venus with her broken arms upraised and her foot on the tortoise? From that hour, Philip's darling dream was that he might some day go to Rome and study under some of those great masters of whom he had heard. He had now been at home for two years, where he had no chance to see a picture or statue, and no one with whom he could talk over his plans, but none the less had he cherished them in secret. But now, if this new plan were carried out, all must be given up. A new country would be no place for an artist; there would be nothing but rough work to do.

Philip did not fear work or hardship. He knew, before he heard it from Count Maurice, that a great many Germans had emigrated to America and done well there. He had heard a letter read which such an emigrant had written to his brother in Fulda, telling of the large farm, of the cows and sheep and horses, and the money that was to be made. It would be a grand opening for Gustaf—better than working day and night for a mere subsistence, and perhaps, after all, to be carried off as his father had been the next time the landgrave wanted to sell some of his people for money. Then, as Greta said, it was a great thing to see his mother smile again.

Philip had been sitting on the foot of his bed in the dark. He got up; and striking a light, he went to the cupboard in the wall where he kept his choicest working materials and tools. In a far corner was something carefully covered up with a cloth. Philip drew it forward reverently and unrolled it. It was a block of alabaster, of the clear, fine grain found in the Thuringerwald, partly carved into the semblance of a child's head. The carving was unfinished and faulty in many respects, yet an artist would have seen in it marks of true genius. The eyes were a little out of proportion, but they saw. The mouth smiled and the whole thing was full of expression. It was, in fact, a fair portrait of the little child that was gone. Philip looked at it and kissed it. Then he covered it again and put it back in its place.

Then he closed the door, put out his lamp, and threw himself on his knees by the bedside. How long he remained there he knew not, and only one Eye saw what passed in his mind. To that One with strong crying and tears he appealed, and he was heard.

"Herein we perceive the love of God, because he laid down his life for us; and we ought also to lay down our lives for the brethren."

Philip Reinhart laid down his life at his Saviour's feet that night, and the sacrifice was accepted.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISCHIANZA.

WE must now go back to the month of June, 1778. The winter just passed had been one of the darkest of the war to the Americans. Their little army, encamped at Valley Forge, had suffered for want of every necessary of life, notwithstanding the efforts made all over the country to relieve them. It was some comfort to the poor fellows that Washington and his wife lived with them and shared their perils and distresses. The Indians were out all along the frontier, and with them were leagued Tories and renegade whites more savage than themselves. There were divisions among the Americans themselves, and a cabal was formed for the avowed object of ruining the commander-in-chief. It was a dark and gloomy time.

The English, on the contrary, were having very comfortable times. Lord Howe had possession of Philadelphia, and his officers were passing a very jolly winter, getting up balls and parties without number, flirting with the fair daughters of their Tory friends, and too often outraging all decency in their frolics and the company they kept. Howe had gained full command of the Delaware not without some trouble and loss. His forces had been repulsed at Fort Mercer, and he had lost a gallant officer, Count Donop, commander of the Hessian forces. The poor young man was saved from lingering misery by one of the French officers to die in the midst of kindly care, as he said, "the victim of his own ambition and the avarice of his sovereign." Still, Howe had succeeded at last, and the river was his, so that the British ships came and went at pleasure.

In May, Sir William Howe resigned his place, and was succeeded by Sir Henry Clinton. It was on this occasion, and by way of doing honour to the departing general, that certain officers got up the notable scheme of the "Mischianza," a kind of tournament, followed by a grand ball and supper. There were seven knights of the "Blended Rose,"—whatever that might be—and seven of the "Burning Mountain," and ladies dressed in Turkish costume, and black servants with velvet tunics and silver armlets, and a triumphal arch with a figure of Fame blowing from her trumpet the words, "Thy laurels are immortal," and a great deal of other parade and display.

The unlucky Major André was one of the chief promoters of this grand performance, and wrote a glowing description of the same to a friend in England, which was published in the "Annual Register," where it may still be read by the curious, and which provoked some satirical comments. It was thought that a general who, with nineteen thousand disciplined men and abundant material resources, had allowed himself to be cooped up in Philadelphia and kept in a state of siege by a handful, as it were, of ragged, barefooted, half-starved, and half-disciplined troops, * need not have so readily accepted such a dish of adulation or swallowed it with such a grave face. The same feeling was shared by some of his own men.

* Howe seems greatly to have overrated the strength of Washington's army. See "Annual Register."

It was the afternoon before the grand pageant was to take place. Some iron-work was needed which required a more skilful hand than that of an ordinary workman. Caspar Reinhart, blacksmith to one of the Hessian regiments, was known to be a most accomplished smith, and to possess a good deal of skill in ornamental work, and Major André applied to his colonel to borrow him for the occasion.

"Oh yes, you can have him, of course, and he vill do your vork vell—dere is no doubt of dat," said the good-natured German. "Reinhart is as goot a smit as is in de army."

"And you, colonel—will you grace our festival to-morrow? It will be a fine sight, I can tell you."

"It will be a — of a sight, to my mind," said Colonel von Falkenstein, using a German adjective neither elegant nor complimentary. "We haf been fooling away time all dis vinter, and now ve are fooling away money; dat is shoost the truth, Major André. De Yankees will make demselves fun for us, and vith goot reason; and old Steuben—yes, I know what he will say. No, I shall not go to see your pasteboard knights and painted ladies. I shall stay at home and write to mine frau—my wife—for I believe we shall move from here before long."

"But you will let me have the smith?" said André, who had no mind to quarrel with the old soldier.

"Oh yes, to pe sure you can haf the smit, and a goot workman he is, and a goot soldier, though he will never speak one word he can help. But he can speak English shust so goot as I myself can."

"That leaves nothing to be desired," said Major André, gravely. "But I must hasten back to my work."

"Very goot; I will send Reinhart after you."

And thus it happened that Caspar Reinhart was engaged on some of the ornamental wirework of the tilt-yard, as it was called. Colonel von Falkenstein had not over-praised him when he called him a good soldier, though a very silent one, and an admirable workman.

Caspar listened to the instructions of the major, now and then suggesting a slight improvement or respectfully pointing out a difficulty. He then informed Major André that he should want such-and-such things—an anvil and forge and a man to help him.

"How very well you speak English!" said Major André.

"I have taken pains to learn it," was the answer.

"You would do famously on secret service," said the major, struck with a sudden thought. "Nobody would know you from one of the Germans born in the country. You would make a capital spy."

Caspar made no answer to this remark, which was not to his taste, if one might judge by the sudden darkening of his brow, but set himself at once to work moving things out of his way and preparing for his undertaking. It was not long before one of the portable army-forges was set up, the charcoal furnished, and the fire kindled, but an assistant seemed to be lacking.

"Here is a man to serve your turn, Reinhart," said Major André, presently reappearing with a tall, somewhat countryfied-looking man, whose broad-brimmed hat and butternut-coloured clothes seemed to mark him for one of the Society of Friends. "Nathan here understands your trade.—Did you say your name was Nathan or Nathaniel, my Quaker friend?"

"Neither, friend," answered the new comer, quietly. "My name is Jonathan Elmer; and having come to this place about my own business, I have no objection to earn an honest penny before I leave it. Neither am I a Friend or Quaker, as thee calls them, but my wife's folks are of that persuasion, and I have caught their ways."

"And pray what was your business, Master Jonathan Elmer, if I may make so bold as to inquire," said André, somewhat suspiciously; "and how did you come hither without a pass?"

"My business here is to look after a debtor who I have reason to think means to run away," answered Jonathan, with the same calmness. "As to my pass, I have shown it to thy commanding officer, and will do the same for thee if thou wilt, taking the freedom at the same time to observe that the fire is wasting and this friend who has thy work in charge is growing impatient."

"And that is true," said Major André. "Go about your work, and you shall be well paid, both of you."

The two smiths went to work with a will, and Caspar found his new acquaintance an intelligent assistant, though he talked as much as he worked and asked a great many questions—so many that Caspar's suspicions began to be aroused.

"What does thee mean to do when this war is over?" asked Jonathan Elmer as the two together were fixing in its place a bit of iron railing.

"Go home to my family, if they will let me," answered Caspar, shortly.

"I have heard that many of the Hessians did not come of their own accord?"

"Very few of them did.—Take care; that beam is loose."

"And I have heard that a great many of them have deserted. Is that true?"

"So they say."

"And is it true that there is talk of evacuating Philadelphia?"

"You ask too many questions, comrade," said Caspar, but not unkindly, for something in the young man's manner drew him toward the stranger in spite of himself. "You will be in trouble if any one hears you."

"Thank thee for the caution," said Elmer. "It is indeed not wise to give way to unrestrained curiosity, and for my wife's sake as well as my own, I should not like to get into trouble."

"Then you have a wife?" asked Caspar.

"Yes, indeed—as fair and good as lives—and three promising children, though I say it that shouldn't. And you—There! I beg your pardon," said Jonathan Elmer. "I see I have touched a sore spot. Pray forgive me."

"There needs no forgiveness," answered Caspar, choking down his emotion. "I left a wife and four children at home without even a leave-taking."

"You did not desert them, surely?"

"Heaven forbid! but I was carried away without the chance of speaking a word to my family.—Is that firm, think you? I am not sure of it."

"As firm as it can be made with the stupid work of these British carpenters. 'Tis a wonder if the whole is not down when any weight comes on it. Take care!"

As he spoke, the whole ornamental work of the screen on which they were engaged cracked and fell with a tremendous crash. A large beam fell just where Caspar had been standing, and but for his companion's quick sight and sudden action in drawing him away would have crushed him to the earth. Some of the light lattice-work grazed his cheek as it was.

"You have saved my life," said Caspar as soon as he could speak for the lime-dust which filled his mouth and eyes. "But what—"

"Hush! Hush!" said his companion, hastily readjusting the hat and wig, which had been displaced and showed underneath fair hair and a skin unstained by butternut juice. "Are you hurt?"

"No; thanks to your wit and strong arm, am safe. And you?"

"Not a bit, not a bit!" answered Captain Elmer. "But it was an unlucky thing for me. My life is in your hands, Friend Reinhart; will you sell it?"

"What do you take me for?" asked Caspar, indignantly. "Am I a dog of Tory?"

"No, truly; but we of the Jerseys have little reason to love or trust the Hessians. Well, do what you will; 'tis but the fortune of war."

"Hush!" said Caspar, imperatively. "Here comes the English major. You have been hurt by the beam, and can hardly stand; do you comprehend?"

"Yes, yes! But you. Don't let me get you into trouble!"

"Hush!" said Caspar, again.

And at that moment, Major André made his appearance on the scene.

"What is the matter? Oh, I see. I told Barne the screen would never stand. Was any one hurt? What! You, my good fellow?"

"Not much," answered the pretended blacksmith, setting his teeth as in pain—"only my shin; but it aches for the minute, and I don't believe I am good for much more work this afternoon."

"We can do no more, at any rate, till the screen is set up again," remarked Caspar.

"Very well; there will be time to finish in the morning. Be on hand bright and early. There is a guinea for you, Friend Jonathan, to buy a plaister. You are a likely fellow, too. Suppose you enlist, take the king's money, and help to drive the Yankees out of Pennsylvania?"

"I should make but a poor hand at thy carnal weapons of warfare, friend," answered Jonathan Elmer, coolly pocketing the money. "Thank thee for thy proffer, all the same."

"I say! Where do you lodge, in case I want you again?" said Major André.

"At the sign of the Fast Horse, in Second street," answered Jonathan.

"Very good; I shall know where to find you. I must hunt up my precious carpenters and make them do their work over again."

"Now he is gone, you had better be going too," said Caspar.

"I am entirely of your opinion," answered Captain Elmer. "If I saved your life, you have spared mine, so we are fairly even, since you might have betrayed me to yonder prince of popinjays with a word. Should you ever be in straits within the American lines, ask for Jonathan Elmer. And here: take this for a keepsake."

"What will you do?" asked Caspar, mechanically holding the watch which Captain Elmer put into his hands.

"Well enough, never fear. I have friends enough in town, and I know every creek on the Delaware. Farewell! I see our fine major coming this way again."

Jonathan Elmer limped deliberately away till he had turned the corner, when he exchanged his limp for a rapid walk, turned the corner of a narrow alley leading to the water, and was out of sight in an instant.

CHAPTER V.

A DOOR OPENED.

VERY early in his military career, Caspar Reinhart had earned the character given him by old Von Falkenstein—of being one of the best men, and altogether the most silent man, in the whole force. Snatched without warning from home and family and all that he held dear, he was at first like one stunned by a heavy blow. He could feel nothing but a cold, benumbing sense of utter desolation. As the days went on, carrying him farther and farther from all that made life worth having, this first feeling was succeeded by one of burning rage against those who had been the cause of his misfortune, more especially against the landgrave and Captain Burger, who had commanded the kidnapping party who took him prisoner. It is impossible to have such a feeling in one's heart and not betray it in some way; and so it came to pass that Captain Burger knew that Caspar Reinhart both hated and despised him.

Now, it takes a great man to despise contempt. Captain Burger was not a great man, but a very small one, and he returned Casper's hatred with interest, and was all the more angry because his enemy gave him no cause of complaint. No man was better at drill or neater in his dress than Reinhart, none more punctiliously respectful in manner or more attentive to his general duty. There was actually nothing to lay hold of. Nevertheless, Captain Burger hated Reinhart and spited him on every occasion.

But their connection was not to last long, which was well for both of them. A smith was wanted for a cavalry regiment, and inquiry was made among the men.

"There is Reinhart, from Nonnenwald," said Reinhart's colonel, who was a friend of old Von Falkenstein. "His father was the best smith in all the country, and he brought up his son to his own trade. I think Reinhart would suit you exactly. He is in Burger's company at present, and would be well out of it. Reinhart is no common man. He is somewhat educated and very well behaved, but he is thrown away where he is; and besides, they tell me Burger spites him whenever he can get a chance to do so."

"How is it that you come to know him so well?"

"Oh, I knew his father before him, and so feel interested for him. I should like to get him out of Burger's way."

"Burger is a stupid coxcomb of a would-be Frenchman," growled the old man.

So the matter was finally settled, and Caspar found his condition much improved by the exchange. His spirits insensibly grew brighter as he felt his old tools once more in his hands. The dark cloud cleared away from his brain, and he was able once more to think and to consider what was best to be done. There was no escape from his present condition, and all that remained was to make the best of it. He could not bring himself to feel that he owed any duty to the sovereign who had sold him like a sheep or the officers who had kidnapped him, but he saw that for his own sake and that of those he had left at home, he must earn and support a good character. He would do so to the best of his ability, would save his wages, and at the end of the war, if he lived so long, he would settle down in the country whither he had been brought against his will and send for his family to come to him.

Having once arrived at this conclusion, Caspar kept it steadily in view. He worked early and late, and earned many an odd shilling and half guinea besides his regular pay. He set himself earnestly to work to learn English, and made very rapid progress. One day, after a successful foraging-party in New Jersey, he heard some of his companions laughing over their plunder.

"Give it to Reinhart," he heard one of them say. "He can tell us."

"Give what to Reinhart?" he asked.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried one of the men. "The smith has spoken without being spoken to.—Come here, smith, and tell Barsch what he has found. He thinks it is a book of Yankee magic."

Reinhart took in his hand the small richly-bound volume and looked at the title-page.

"It is a Bible," said he.

"A Bible! Barsch has stolen a Bible!" cried his companions. "Barsch can set himself up for a pastor.—Come, old fellow, give us a sermon."

"Hush, children!" said a gray old sergeant. "Is that the way to treat the holy word? You will bring bad luck on us."

"It is only a Yankee Bible, Father Martin," said the young man, a little abashed.

"A Bible is a Bible all over the world," returned the old sergeant. "Is not that so, smith?"

"That is true," answered Reinhart.

He had held the Bible in his hands all the time, and as he turned over its pages, a great longing seized him to have the book for his own. He had not seen or opened a Bible since the day he was carried away, and the very touch and sight seemed to do him good.

"Will you sell me this book, Barsch?" he asked.

"Give it to you if you like," was the answer. "You don't think it will bring me ill-luck, do you?"

"Give him a horseshoe to wear round his neck in exchange for his book," cried one of the men, laughing, "else some Yankee witch will come and carry him off."

A half-laughing, half-quarrelling dispute ensued, but Reinhart heard nothing of it. Book in hand, he retreated to a quiet corner and sat down to study his prize. He had always been given to reading when he had time, and he thought the Bible would be a great help to that knowledge of English which he so coveted. Every spare moment was now spent with his book. He was familiar already with the German Lutheran versions, and had no more trouble in making out the English than served to impress it on his mind.

He read and studied, and by degrees a new light broke upon his darkness. A new hope arose in his heart. One of whom he had always heard, but whom he had never known, came to him, and said,—

"It is I: be not afraid."

And Caspar believed and was comforted. He still held to his purpose of settling in America if he should live to the close of the war, and getting his family about him in a new home, but a brighter and higher hope arose behind and over all. He learned to take that long look into eternity which reduces all things else to correct perspective, like the true point of sight in a picture.

It was impossible for Reinhart not to abhor the life he was living. He was a humane and kind-hearted man engaged in a war which it must be confessed was one of peculiar atrocity. It is a fact that in order to strike the more terror into the rebels, as they were called, the Hessians were encouraged in all sorts of violence, cruelty, and oppression. They were told that the Yankees took no prisoners except such as they meant to make slaves of, and they were bidden to give no quarter. In the whole of the New Jersey campaign, the Hessians robbed, burnt, and murdered right and left, friends as well as enemies. Those who had fondly hoped to remain neutral, relying on Sir William Howe's protection, found they were leaning on a broken reed. The Hessians never asked whether a man were Whig or Tory, rebel or loyal, so long as he had what they coveted. The men were absolutely encumbered with plunder; and as a natural consequence, their discipline was relaxed and their own officers found it hard to manage them.

Reinhart kept aloof from such scenes as much as possible, but he was a soldier and had to obey orders, and he constantly saw things which turned him sick with horror or made his blood boil with rage. Sometimes, indeed, he would interfere to save a life or protect a child from death or a woman from insult, but oftener was a helpless spectator of the atrocities perpetrated by his comrades.

Only for the hope that he might some time rejoin his family, and that other hope which had lately arisen in his mind, he would have gone mad. He never tried to avoid any exposure, but the bullets which laid low so many of his companions seemed to avoid him, and he never had a scratch. His wild companions, who had alternately abused and laughed at him, at last began to respect the silent man who never shrank from any danger or evaded any duty or hesitated to help a comrade in trouble, but who absolutely refused to soil his hands with cruelty or plunder. Some of them even whispered that he was under the protection of some superior power; whether heavenly or not they could not tell.

Caspar was early at his work the morning after the accident with the screen. He had a shrewd guess that his clever assistant with the brown wig would not appear again, and he had therefore brought with him one of his own companions.

The carpenter had mended the broken screen, and the light wire lattice was once more fixed in its place when Major André appeared on the scene with Caspar's old officer and enemy, Captain Burger. Burger had always striven hard to assume and support the character of a fine gentleman. He had once held a very doubtful position in one of the very smallest of German courts. He had been the humble companion of the youthful heir-apparent, and had there learned a little French, a little music, and a good deal about kings and queens, princes and princesses. He knew how to fence and to dance; and being big and tall, with a yellow moustache and a great deal of assurance, he believed himself quite irresistible. He had been one of the great promoters of the Mischianza, which most of his companions openly ridiculed, and he had tried hard to be made one of the "Knights of the Blended Rose," but that honour was denied him.

"Well done, smith," cried Major André as Caspar paused in his work and gravely saluted the two officers. "You have lost no time, I see, and you have done your work well."

Caspar bowed gravely.

"But I see you have a new assistant," continued Major André. "What has become of our Yankee friend?"

"I have not seen him," answered Caspar. "I thought he might be too much hurt to work, and therefore, not to lose time, I brought one of my own comrades along."

"You are a clever fellow," said André, examining the work. "You ought to be something more than a common smith."

Caspar bowed again.

"Why, what a dumb fish you are, man!" said the good-natured major. "For a man that speaks English so well as you do, you are wonderfully chary of your words."

"We have a proverb which says that silence is a safe game," said Caspar, not unmoved by the kindly manner of the handsome young Englishman and smiling in his turn.

Captain Burger looked at Reinhart as he spoke, and recognized him.

"What! You are Reinhart of Falkenstein's troop?" said he, in a voice which somehow conveyed an insult in its very tones. "I remember you were always a sulky bear. Well, have you heard from home lately?"

"No, my captain," answered Caspar, respectfully, his heart giving a sudden leap as a gleam of hope came over him. "I have never heard a word from my wife since I left her. May I ask if any letters have come?"

"Not that I know of," answered Captain Burger. "I fancy the women have something else to do. Your wife may have donned her widow's veil and taken it off again before this time, as I hear many another has done."

For a moment, the old hate blazed up in Caspar's heart and shone out at his eyes. Then the bitter feeling of disappointment drowned everything else. He bit his pale lips and turned away.

"Burger, you are a brute," said André, in honest indignation.—"There! Never mind, my man," he added, hastily and in a low tone as he caught sight of Caspar's face. "Don't get yourself into trouble. I dare say your good wife has written before now. The mails are very uncertain."

"Have no fear for me, my officer," answered Caspar, quietly. "He who kicks a fettered man exercises his valour in safety.—Will it please you to tell us what to do next? I think there is no more fear of this."

"Smith, you shall pay for this," said Burger, pale with rage in his turn.

"Hold your tongue, man, can't you?" said André, drawing him away. "Let the smith alone. He is a fine fellow, and shall not be insulted—while he is working for me, at least."

It was not for Burger's interest to quarrel with his companion, so he smoothed his plumes and affected to treat the matter as of no consequence:

"Well, well, let it go. He is a good smith, as you say, and might rise, only for his sulky temper."

"He must have wit, or he would not have learned English so readily," remarked André. "I was telling him yesterday that he ought to be employed in secret service, as nobody would know him from a German born in the country. I don't think, however, that he relished the notion."

A light not good to see shone in Burger's eyes for a moment.

"Yes, as you say, he would make a good spy.—I wonder I never thought of that," he added, more to himself than to his companion. "To be sure, he might desert, but then I should be rid of him."

"Why in the name of wonder should you wish to be rid of him?" asked André, in surprise. "I should think such a workman would be invaluable. I never saw a better piece of work than he has made of that screen."

"Oh, he is such a sulky dog. You heard how he answered me—or you, rather."

"And what wonder, when you spoke as you did? Suppose any one had hinted such a thing about your wife, supposing you had one?"

"Major André, such language as this from one gentleman to another—"

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said André, who stood in no awe of his big companion. "Don't try to pick a quarrel, man. I have no time for such frolics at present. Come, let us go and look at our arch of triumph. Do you know what old Von Falkenstein said when I told him about it? 'More arch than triumph,' he growled; and, faith, I think, between ourselves, the old man was right. It must be confessed we have not made a very brilliant campaign."

Two or three days after the Mischianza had gone off in grand array, a messenger came to Caspar Reinhart as he was reading beside his forge in one of the intervals of his work.

"You are to go to headquarters directly," said the messenger. "General Clinton has sent for you."

Greatly wondering, Reinhart made himself tidy, put his book in his pocket, and presented himself in due time before General Clinton, who, with several officers about him, was examining a rough map of the shores of the Delaware below Philadelphia. Captain Burger was in attendance, and his eye met Reinhart's with a look which the latter did not understand.

"Here is the man I mentioned to Your Excellency," said he.

"Oh yes! Your name is—"

"Caspar Reinhart, Your Excellency."

"And I hear you speak English very well and are skilful at your trade?"

"It is not for me to say, Your Excellency," answered Reinhart, with a beating heart. He had heard a rumour that he was to be transferred to the artillery—a change which would have been greatly to his liking.

"Ah, well, you are just the man I want," said Sir Henry. "It is very desirable that we should know the state of things in West Jersey, and you are the very one to obtain information for us. We have reason to think that some forces are gathering there, and that there is a design for attacking the forts."

The general proceeded to explain his plan. Reinhart was to be taken down to the fort below the city. Here he was to take a boat, slip away by night down the river, and land somewhere on the Jersey shore. From thence he was to proceed inland in the character of a smith seeking work, communicating cautiously with loyal inhabitants and gathering all the information possible.

Again Caspar saw the glance of gratified malice in Burger's eyes, and he understood at once that he was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. His habit of silence served him in good stead; and though every vein and nerve was tingling, he simply saluted and said nothing.

"You will come here at four o'clock to receive your final instructions and money," continued Sir Henry. "I shall furnish you with a pass to help you in your return, although you are not to use it except in case of utmost need. You must make your wit save your head, as the saying goes."

"Or his neck, rather," said Burger, with a sneer.

"I shall try to do so, Your Excellency," said Caspar, with the same gravity, thinking, at the same time, that the pass would most likely be unnecessary.

"That is all. Come here precisely at four o'clock. Of course you understand that this matter must be mentioned to no one. You are merely going down to the fort to look at some iron-work which needs repairing. I need not tell you that the service is a dangerous one; but if you succeed, the reward shall be in proportion to the danger."

Caspar, finding himself dismissed, walked slowly back to his quarters, resolving many things in his mind. He saw clearly that he was indebted to his old enemy Captain Burger for being sent on such a troublesome and dangerous service—a service far more perilous than any ordinary engagement, since, if discovered and taken, he was certain to be hung. The business was one peculiarly disagreeable to him. His sympathies were all on the side of the Americans, who were fighting for their liberty against almost hopeless odds. As to his own prince, he naturally did not feel that he owed any duty to the prince who had sold him like a sheep. Hundreds of the Hessians had deserted, but Caspar could not make up his mind to desert. If for no other reason, he would not give his enemy such a triumph.

"I can only go where I am sent," said he, at last. "Perhaps, after all, this may be the opening of the door for which I have been praying."

The afternoon was spent in making his preparations. He secured the small sum of money which he had earned and saved, wrapped up his Bible and put it in an inner pocket, and wrote a long letter to his wife, which he carried to the old sergeant, begging him to send it as soon as possible.

"What! You are going down the river, I hear?" said the old man. "I suppose you will be back in a few days. I wish the stupid English would mend their own tools and let us alone. There is not a smith in the whole army who can manage a horse as you can. But you will be back soon, eh?"

"There is no telling," said Caspar. "Farewell, Father Martin, and many thanks for all your kindness. If you ever go back, go and see my wife at Nonnenwald."

"Why, one would think you were going to your death," said old Martin, struck by something in Caspar's manner. "You don't mean to desert, eh?"

"Not I," answered Caspar; "but there are things one must not tell, you know."

"I believe Burger has been playing you some dog's trick or other," said Martin. "If he has, I will put a nail in his shoe for it. I know all about him and his family; he is no more a gentleman than I am. Yes, yes! I can tell things."

"Do nothing for my sake, Father Martin," said Caspar, earnestly. "The man has always been my enemy, but I have no desire for revenge. Farewell, and present my duty to our colonel."

Punctually at four o'clock Caspar repaired to the general's quarters, where he received his pass, a well-filled purse, and the hearty good wishes of the general.

"You have settled in your mind precisely what you will do?"

"As far as I can beforehand, Your Excellency;" and Caspar proceeded to explain his design.

"You are a very clear-headed man," said the general. "You shall not be forgotten, I promise you, when you return."

"It will be time to think of that when I see whether I am to return at all, Your Excellency."

"Oh, you must not be downhearted," said Sir Henry, kindly. "The service is a dangerous one, but many a man has lived through it. Good luck go with you!"

At twelve o'clock that night, Caspar Reinhart pushed off his little boat and made for the Jersey shore, under cover of which he floated downward, only using his oars to keep himself from running aground. It was a bright night. The wind blew down the river and the tide was running out very fast. The air was soft and warm, and all sorts of sweet odours mingled with the smell of salt water and river-mud. The frogs, turtles, and insects were performing an uproarious concert along shore, to which to him unknown birds occasionally added a strain.

Caspar listened to the various voices, wondering what creatures made them, and starting now and then as some big bullfrog near at hand offered a gruff remark, till he grew horribly sleepy, and at last dropped into a doze. He did not seem to himself to have slept a moment, when he was startled by a sudden shock, and waked to find his boat aground. The early streaks of dawn were showing in the east, and Caspar concluded that he could not do better than to rest on his oars till it grew light enough to see about him.

Presently he discovered that his boat had run itself aground on a sandy spit of land projecting into the Delaware. On the other side seemed to be the mouth of a pretty good-sized inlet or river; it was not easy to say which. The banks were low and overgrown with oak and pine, mostly quite small, and what is called scrub, intermixed with holly and laurel, the latter in the full beauty of its magnificent bloom. Beautiful vines ran over the trees, and strange flowering-plants grew in the edges of the water. Dainty beach-birds danced up and down the margin of sand left by the retreating tide, a stately heron was fishing on the other side, and on a tree close at hand a mocking-bird was pouring out a wonderful strain of melody. *

* The mocking-bird is a rare but not unknown visitor in South Jersey. I heard a very fine one in the old churchyard in Bridgeton.

"It is the garden of Eden," thought Caspar, looking about him with delight, for he had a keen sense of beauty. "Well, I don't see that I can do better than to eat my breakfast, rest a while, and when the tide makes float up the creek here and seek my fortune in the interior."

CHAPTER VI.

THE BEAR.

ABOUT ten o'clock the water was high enough to float the boat, and Caspar, once more betaking himself to his oars, found himself being carried by the tide up one of the most crooked rivers he had ever seen. The boat's head did not point the same way for half an hour at one time. The banks were very lonely, low but not marshy, and covered with a low growth of pines and glossy-leaved oaks mixed with holly and laurel, while now and then from some low ground came the warm spicy breath of the magnolia. Caspar saw no signs of human habitation.

"I wonder where all the people are?" he thought. "The general says the country is well settled, so I suppose I shall come to them some time or other. I shall have to tie up by and by, I suppose, when the tide turns. I wonder what time it is?"

And then he remembered Jonathan Elmer's watch, and took it out. It was a plain double-cased one, with the owner's name engraved on the inside, where was a small water-colour drawing of a pretty dark-haired little girl. Caspar looked at the picture till the tears came to his eyes.

"It is like our little Gertrude, who went to heaven so long ago," said he. "Oh, if I only knew what they were all about at this moment!"

Just then a sound fell on his ear strange to hear in the midst of such a wilderness—a child's voice calling for help in tones of distress and alarm. Caspar turned his boat's head toward the bank, but a thought made him pause for a moment. He had heard of an animal in the woods of America which imitated the sound of children's voices in order to draw compassionate travellers into its clutches. * Another cry—articulate this time—made him hesitate no longer:

"Father, father! Come to Kitty, quick!"

* This story used to be told of the panther, and believed when I was young; and I believe it is still credited by old woodsmen.

In an instant, Caspar had reached the shore, and sprang up the bank. He pushed on through the thick bushes, and came upon a curious scene. A pretty little girl about eight years old stood with her back against a tree, brandishing with all her strength a dry stick which she had snatched up, while about four feet away was a black bear sitting on his haunches and regarding the child with great attention. The animal seemed rather curious and interested than angry.

Kitty had no notion of falling an unresisting prey, and brandished her pine stick womanfully, while she called for help at the top of her voice. The moment her eyes fell on Caspar, she exclaimed,—

"Oh, Mr. Man, please to drive away that thing."

Caspar shouted and drew a pistol from his belt, but the bear had no mind to wait for any such arguments. He dropped on his fore legs with an angry snarl and shuffled away. The moment he was out of sight, Kitty dropped her weapon, and, tumbling all in a heap at the bottom of the tree, began to cry bitterly.

Caspar sat down on a stone, and taking her in his lap endeavoured to soothe her, but it was no easy task. She was a very pretty child, and had been neatly dressed, but her clothes were torn and stained and her little shoes nearly worn from her feet.

"Hush, hush, little dear!" said Caspar, pressing the little dark head against his breast and holding the hands which clung to him desperately. "The bear is gone; he shall not hurt you nor scare you any more."

"It is naughty to cry, I know," sobbed Kitty, finding her voice at last; "but the thing was so ugly and black; and when I told him to go away, he—he—just grinned! He wouldn't mind me a bit!" She sobbed afresh at the remembrance of the bear's disrespectful conduct.

"Naughty bear, not to mind the little girl!" said Caspar. "But where dost thou live, little dear?"

"My father lives in Bridgeton, but I am staying at Aunt Deborah's," said Kitty; "and I got lost and have been out in the woods all night, and I am so hungry you don't know."

Caspar put his hand in his pocket and drew out a couple of hard biscuits, which Kitty eagerly seized upon.

"But don't you want some yourself?" she asked after she had eaten one.

"Oh no; I have had my breakfast. But now try and tell me where thy aunt lives. Is it on the river here?"

"Yes; it is on the river, right across from Greenwich," explained Kitty with her mouth full of biscuit. "Aunt Deborah preaches in the meeting at Greenwich, and it was that that made me get lost."

"How so?" asked Caspar, much wondering what sort of an aunt it was that preached.

"Why, she went to meeting and she wouldn't take me, and I was angry, and so I ran away and got lost. It was very naughty of me," concluded Kitty, penitently, "because Aunt Deborah is real good generally; only I did want so very much to go and see Elizabeth Fithian's kittens."

"But thou shouldst mind what thou art told, my child," said Caspar.

"Yes, I know I should, and most generally I do," said Kitty; "but I wanted some magnolias and lady-slippers.—But who are you?" she asked, struck with a new fear. "You are not a Hessian, are you?"

"What dost thou know about Hessians?" asked Caspar.

"They are wicked men who fight for King George, and kill people, and drive away their cattle," said Kitty. "Recompense Joake said the Hessians would catch me if I went out in the pasture, and cut my head off. You are not a Hessian, are you?"

"I am a Hessian, certainly, but I will not hurt thee," said Caspar. "The Hessians are not all bad. I will carry thee home if only we can find the way. I think we had better go down to the river and take to the boat. If thy home is up the river, we shall reach it sooner in that way."

"There, now! I shall tell Recompense Joake that he doesn't know everything," said Kitty, in a tone of satisfaction, as they turned toward the bank. "But Hessians do hurt people sometimes?"

"Yes, when they are soldiers. That is the trade of a soldier, you know."

"And are you not a soldier?'

"I am a smith," said Caspar, evading the question. "I had a dear little girl just about thy age, who died."

"Did you?" asked Kitty, much interested. "What was her name?"

"Her name was Gertrude Reinhart, and mine is Caspar Reinhart."

"And my name is Catharine Elmer, but everybody calls me Kitty, even Recompense Joule," said Kitty, in an injured tone.—"There, now! I should like to know how we are to get into your boat?"

Caspar looked in dismay. In his hurry to save the child, he had not secured his boat. It had floated off into the middle of the stream, and, the tide having turned, it was making good progress toward Delaware Bay. Caspar could have beaten himself for his stupidity, but there was no help for it now.

"Well, little one, we must trust to our own legs," said he, trying to make the best of matters. "If we keep within sight of the river, we cannot be far wrong. If only the boat had not carried away my great-coat and provisions, it would not matter so much."

Kitty declared herself able to walk "miles upon miles," now that she had had something to eat, and set off sturdily enough; but it presently appeared that she had overrated her powers, since she was not only very tired, but very lame.

"Thou canst not walk, my little one," said Caspar, presently.

"I am afraid I can't," answered Kitty, sorrowfully. "My feet are so sore, and I think I have got a thorn or something in one of them."

Caspar examined the tender little feet, which were indeed sorely blistered, drew out a thorn, and bound them up with leaves and strips torn from Kitty's apron, which was pretty well reduced to rags already. Kitty bore the operation bravely, though she winced now and then.

"Now you will have to carry me," said she, "and I don't see how you will manage. But it is a good thing that I am small of my age, isn't it? I shall tell Recompense Joake so when I get home. He is always laughing at me and calling me a chipmunk and a sparrow, and what not."

Kitty chattered on till she chattered herself off to sleep. She was not very heavy, but still she was something of a load, and Caspar found his arms aching. The walking was difficult and slow, especially as he dared not go out of sight of the river for fear of losing his way.

He was obliged to sit down and rest several times, and it was drawing on toward sunset when he at last came out on an open space where there were signs of a farm-clearing and a deserted and half-ruined log cabin. Near by was a bit of low ground overgrown with bushes, out of which ran a clear shallow stream, the first running water they had come across that day. There had been a small barn, but it was broken down and decayed. The cabin was a double one, and the roof and fireplace at one end were tolerably entire, while the other held a heap of old straw and a quantity of pine knots and roots which had evidently been gathered for fuel at some time or other.

Caspar laid Kitty gently down on the straw and covered her with his jacket. Then he climbed a tall tree—the only one of any size near—and looked all about him. Far away on the other side of the river he could see a smoke, but on this side all was as lonely as if no man had ever set foot on the soil.

"What a long way the child must have wandered!" he thought. "But then lost children do travel to an immense distance sometimes."

He descended, and sat down on a log at the door to consider the situation. He was very tired himself; and horribly sleepy, having been up all the night before. There was no appearance of their being near any house. Some round headed clouds were rising in the west, betokening a thunder-shower by and by. If they went on, darkness and the storm would probably overtake them in the woods, and the child might perish before morning. Here they at least had shelter and the means of making a fire.

Caspar searched his pockets again, and discovered another bit of biscuit. He also examined and reprimed his pistols. As he did so, a mellow whistle made him look up to see a pair of quails running along under the edge of a tumble-down bit of fence. Caspar was a capital marksman, and the birds were within easy shot. He took a careful aim, and to his great delight succeeded in killing one of them.

"Good!" said he. "Things might be worse, a great deal."

He picked up his prize, and turned to where Kitty, awakened by the shot, was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"What was that?" she asked, apparently a little bewildered.

"I have killed a bird for our supper," said Caspar, "and now I am going to make a fire and cook it."

"But I always have bread and milk for supper," said Kitty, "and I want to go home and get some. I don't want to stay out another night."

"Nor I," answered Caspar, "but we cannot choose very well.—There! Don't cry," he added, as Kitty put up a grieved lip. "Listen, and I will tell you all about it."

Kitty listened while Caspar, in the plainest English he could muster, explained the plan he had decided upon and his reasons for it. The comment she made was an unexpected one:

"I like you, Mr. Hessian, because you talk sense and tell the reasons of things. When I ask Recompense Joake the reason, he says, 'Oh, don't thee bother! Little girls can't understand.' He did the other day when I asked him what was the reason the shad come in the spring, and not in the fall; and I don't believe he knew himself. Do you?"

"I dare say not," said Caspar much amused, but wondering who or what Recompense Joake could be. "Then you will try to be content?"

"I will try to be good," said Kitty, piteously, "but I do want to go home so much you don't know. And we always have warm gingerbread Friday night; and oh, just suppose my father should come home and find me gone!"

The thought was too much for Kitty's philosophy. She burst into tears and cried bitterly.

Caspar hushed and comforted her as well as he could, speaking sometimes English and sometimes German in his perplexity. At last, he hit on an expedient.

"I wish you could stop crying," said he, "because I want you to help me about supper."

The thought of being useful brought comfort to Kitty's soul. She looked up from Caspar's bosom, where she had hidden her head, and wiped her eyes with what remained of her frock.

"You are very good to like me when I cry so much," said she. "I can't bear children that cry, myself. There, now! I am good. What shall I do?"

"You may pick the bird's feathers off if you like, while I make the fire."

A very satisfactory fire, kindled by Caspar's tinder-box, was soon roaring up the long-unused chimney. Caspar brought in all the pine knots and what wood he could find without going too far away, arranged a bed of straw covered with pine boughs, and finding the shutter which had once closed the window, he barricaded that and the broken door as well as he could. Then he broiled on the coals the bird, which Kitty had picked very neatly. It was not much of a supper for two, but it was far better than nothing, and Kitty grew quite cheerful over it. Supper over, he proposed that she should go to bed.

"I must say my prayers first," said Kitty. "Will you hear me?"

"Truly I will, little dear."

And Kitty knelt down and said her prayers, ending with, "God bless my father and that good man who saved his life!"

"Who saved your father's life, Kitty?" asked Caspar as he arranged her straw bed.

"I don't know his name, but he was a good man, and my father gave him his watch with my picture in it. I don't think he should have given away my picture, though, do you?"

"Perhaps he had no time to take it out," said Caspar, greatly wondering. So this was Jonathan Elmer's child?

"Oh, well, I dare say he did not mean any harm. Aunt Deborah says men are naturally inconsiderate." And with this wise remark, Kitty lay down, and went to sleep as suddenly as a bird tucks its head under its wing.

Caspar had thought himself very sleepy, but the disposition to sleep had vanished with the opportunity of gratifying it, and he had never been more wide awake in his life. The thunder-storm had come up very quickly, and though the sun had hardly set, it was already very dark. The thunder rolled nearer and nearer, and the wind roared furiously among the trees, so that Caspar congratulated himself more than ever on the shelter of the old cabin. He heaped up the fire and kept his ears open, for he remembered the bear, and feared there might be other wild animals in the neighbourhood. He took out his Bible and tried to read, but the light was too uncertain, so he put up the book and fell to musing on his present condition.

"Certainly, the last thing I thought of was finding myself in such a place as this. It seems as if I had been sent on purpose to save the child. Little Gustaf must be about her age. I am thankful I came in time to save her from a horrible death. She must be the child of my friend the smith, who was no more a smith than I am a general. I wish I could sleep; I shall be good for nothing to-morrow. I am beholden to him for the use of his watch."

He took out his watch and wound it up, looking at the picture as he did so. It certainly was very much like Kitty.

The storm seemed to be over. He made up the fire anew with knots and dry sticks, and lay down across the door in Indian fashion, so that nothing could enter. He was just dropping off to sleep when he started at some noise, and came broad awake again. He listened. It was repeated—a loud shout, and then, "Kitty! Kitty Elmer!"

"They have come to look for the child," was his instant thought. He sprang to the door and shouted loudly.

The answer came back from no great distance: "Where are you?"

"This way—in the—" Caspar could not remember the word for clearing, so he shouted again.

He heard the noise of approaching steps, and in a minute two or three men burst through the bushes and rushed up to the cabin.

CHAPTER VII.

NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FOES.

"HERE is she? Where is the child?" asked two or three together.

"In there, asleep," answered Caspar, pointing over his shoulder to where Kitty lay, unawakened by the noise.

"Thank the Lord!" said one, a hard-featured, preternaturally solemn-looking man. "I never hoped to see her alive again. Are you sure she is living, and not dead?"

"She is surely living unless she has died within half an hour," said Caspar.

"And where did thee find her, friend?" asked the solemn man, after he had looked at Kitty and satisfied himself that she was indeed alive.

"Some miles below here, on the bank of the river. She told me she had been out all night."

"And why didn't you bring her right home, instead of camping down here?" asked one of the men who had spoken first, in a loud, harsh voice.

"Because I was tired with carrying her and did not know my way; and besides, seeing that a storm was coming up, I judged it better not to leave a shelter I was sure of."

"Yes, that is a likely story!" said the loud-voiced man. "I believe you meant to carry her off and sell her."

"Joses Dandy, if it wasn't against Scripture, I would certainly call thee a fool," said the solemn man. "Why should the man have answered our shouts if he had wished to steal the child? And why should he be going up the river instead of down? Can thee answer me that?"

Apparently, Joses Dandy could not, for he began on another tack.

"And who are you, any way?" he asked, turning again to Caspar.

"Never mind that now," said the other man. "We must fire our pieces to let our friends know the child is found."

The pieces were fired, and in a few minutes, three or four more men made their way to the scene of action.

"What is it? Where is the child?" asked one and another. "Is she found? Is she alive?"

"Alive and well, and sound asleep in there," answered the solemn man.

"And this man here says he found her, and was bringing her home, but I don't believe a word of it," said Joses Dandy, who seemed to have conceived an enmity at first sight against Caspar. "I believe the man is a British spy and meant to steal the child."

"A likely thing for a spy to do!" observed the solemn man.

"Any way, the man is a Hessian by his tongue, and he looks like a soldier," observed another of the party.

"Just so, and I know him. He is a regimental smith," said Joses. "I saw him in Philadelphia last month. He is just a spy come to spy out the nakedness of the land, and it is all fudge about his finding the child."

"And what was thee doing in Philadelphia, I should like to know?" asked the solemn man.

Joses did not find it convenient to hear the question:

"I say hang him up and be done with him!"

"I say so too," said another, who seemed to be somewhat drunk. "The Hessians burnt my grandfather's house and shot down the poor old man in cold blood. Spy or not, I say hang him up without judge or jury! I wish we could hang all the rest with him."

"That's what I say," added Joses. "Hang him up at once!"

"I wouldn't say quite so much about hanging if I was thee, Joses Dandy," said a young man who had hardly spoken before. "If we were to hang up every one whose loyalty was suspected, thy women-folks might have to wait breakfast for thee longer than was convenient. What I want to know is how thee came to see him in the city?"

"Anyhow, we can search him and see what he has about him."

The proposition was acceded to. Caspar now gave himself up for lost, but he remained perfectly passive, while the search proceeded pretty roughly.

"Here's a pass from Clinton himself," said the loud-voiced man. "What do you say now, Recompense Joake?"

"Just what I did before," answered the solemn man, his face, however, lengthening perceptibly.

"And here's a list of names," said another, "and in the same handwriting. What does this mean?"

"What signifies what it means?" said Joses, hastily. "Haven't we enough to convict him? Hang him up, I say, and have done with him."

"Take me out of sight and hearing of the child, any way," said Caspar.

"Oh, thee will keep; there's no such hurry," said the young man, who was called Thomas Whitecar. "Here we are, six men against one; and besides, thee has a right to be heard in thy own defence. Let us see this list.—Hold up the lanthorn, Recompense.—Well, here's thy name first of all, Joses Dandy. I should like to know the meaning of that?"

At this moment the search was interrupted. Kitty, sleeping the sound sleep of tired childhood, had heard none of the noise for a while, but at last the sound of the loud talking made its way to her brain. She woke, sat up, and looked around her, quite bewildered at first, but presently remembering all about it.

"Where are you, Mr. Hessian?" she called.

Receiving no answer, she made her way to the door, and beheld her friend in the hands of men who were evidently treating him roughly enough. Kitty did not know what fear was. With one bound, she was in the midst of the group and had her arms clasped tight round Caspar's body.

"Touch him if you dare!" said she, her great gray eyes flashing fire. "What are you doing to him? There! He drove away the bear and tied up my feet and all, and that's the way you use him—to pull off his coat and his shoes, and make him catch cold in the wet!—Recompense Joake, see if I don't tell father of you when he comes!"

The men looked at each other.

"What was it about the bear, Kitty?" asked Thomas Whitecar.

Kitty told her story, which we have already heard, and which lost nothing by her way of telling it.

"And he tied up my feet real good; and when I couldn't walk, he carried me in his arms miles upon miles, and then he cooked a bird for my supper, and gave me every bit of the biscuit—yes, every bit. He wouldn't take one crumb, and he made me a nice bed; and that's the way you serve him!" cried Kitty, in a tempest of wrath.—"Recompense Joake, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live—so there! Just see if I tell you any more stories, that's all."

"Well, now, Kitty, if it wasn't wrong, I could be put out with thee," said Recompense, seriously aggrieved, as it seemed, by Kitty's threat. "Haven't I been out all night and all day looking for thee, say?"

"Why didn't you look in the right place, then?" asked Kitty, no ways appeased.—"Oh, Cousin Thomas, you won't let them hurt him, will you?"

"Not if I can help it, Kitty," answered Thomas.

"But you shall help it or I'll—I'll kill somebody myself. I'll run right away and get lost again, and tell General Washington of you—yes, and Aunt Deborah too!" cried Kitty, heaping threat upon threat, and keeping fast hold of Caspar.

"I say hang him up! Who minds what a child says?" said Joses Dandy. "I dare say he put the story in her mouth. I know the man, I tell you. I saw him myself shoeing a big white horse for one of the officers of the Waldeckers, as they call them."

"And pray where was thee when thee saw him?" asked Recompense Joake.

"He was selling fresh eggs at a shilling apiece to some of the English officers," said Caspar, quietly.

All the time he had been haunted with the idea that he had seen the man before, and the mention of the big white horse brought back to his mind an egg-and-butter peddler who had asked and obtained an exorbitant price for his wares.

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Thomas Whitecar. "What's that?"

Caspar repeated the story, which Joses noisily denied, declaring the man was only trying to save his own neck, and deserved hanging more than ever.

"Nonsense!" said Thomas Whitecar. "We can't hang a man who has just saved the child's life, and that without any authority or examination. I for one want to know how thy name came into this list of Tories in West Jersey, for that is what it is."

"Just so," said Recompense Joake. "And about this peddling business? If it wasn't against the testimony of Friends to bet, I'd bet something that thee sold to the British in Philadelphia the provisions the women got together to send to the sick in our army. I, for one, should like to hear what this Hessian has to say about that. I think things look rather black for thee, Joses."

"Anyhow, friends, I vote we take the man home with us and keep him till we can consult Captain Elmer. As Recompense says, I want to hear about this peddling business," said Thomas: "I've had my suspicions before."

"Jonathan Elmer!" repeated Caspar.

"Yes, Jonathan Elmer," said Recompense. "Thee seems to know the name."

"I do, and he knows me," replied Caspar, a ray of hope arising at the name of his former assistant. "Bring me face to face with him, I beseech you; I ask nothing better. Is he of these parts?"

"Yes; he lives in Bridgeton. This is his child thee has saved.—Come, friends, let us turn toward home.—Kitty, shall I carry thee?"

"No, indeed, thank you!" replied Kitty, disdainfully. "I don't want any one to carry me only Mr. Hessian.—But maybe you are too tired?" she added, looking up in her friend's face. "You carried me so long this morning. Don't your arms ache?"

"Not a bit!" answered Caspar, taking her up and kissing her. "I am in your hands, comrades," he added, with a smile. "You see I am in no case to run away."

"And that is true. I believe you are an honest fellow, though appearances are against you," said the young man who had been most violent against Caspar. "But you needn't wonder that we hate the Hessians, we Jersey folks.—But I say, friends, what's come of Dandy?"

"Sure enough!" said another. "I believe he has slipped away. I've a notion we sha'n't see him again very soon. The rascal! To get so much credit for carrying provisions to our own camp, while all the time he was making money by supplying the British! No wonder he was for hanging this man here in a hurry."

"How far are we from the child's home?" asked Caspar.

"Only about two miles."

It is needless to say with what joy Kitty's arrival was greeted. Her first question was whether her father had come home.

"Yes, he came last night, and is out looking for thee," said her aunt. "Oh, Kitty, Kitty! How much trouble thee has made just because thee wouldn't mind!"

"I know I have been very naughty," said Kitty, penitently, "and I won't ever do so again—not even if you won't take me to meeting, Aunt Deborah. Oh dear! I wish father would come. I want to tell him how Mr. Hessian drove away the bear."

"Thou shouldst call me Caspar, my child," said Caspar.

"Well, Caspar, then!—And won't you give him something real nice to eat, Aunt Deborah, because he gave me almost all the supper there was?"

"Yes, yes! We will see to that. So he found thee in the woods?"

Kitty told her tale over again to admiring listeners, and Caspar found himself promoted from the position of a suspected prisoner to that of a hero. A comfortable room was assigned to him for a prison, if so it could be called, and a savoury hot supper sent up to him. It was the most homelike meal he had seen in many a day, but somehow, though parched with thirst, he felt no disposition to eat. He had just emptied the pitcher of home-brewed beer when Recompense Joake presented his solemn face at the door:

"Has thee got everything comfortable?"

"Everything, thank you."

"I have brought thee a pipe and some tobacco," said his friend, advancing into the room and closing the door. "I don't smoke myself, but I know how much people who do are attached to the weed."

"I don't smoke, either, for a wonder," answered Caspar, "but I thank you all the same."

Recompense still lingered, arranging the fire, and Caspar, who longed to be alone, wondered when he was going.

At last, Recompense drew close to him and said, in a low tone,—

"Friend, I'm not just clear that I am in the path of duty, but I reckon I'll risk it, seeing you saved the child."

"Risk what?" asked Caspar.

"Well, risk going a little grain out of the way for thee. If thee would rather get away before the captain comes home, there's that window opens out on the roof of the shed. It's only five feet from the ground, and there's a boat down by the landing with the oars in it. Does thee understand?"

"I understand," said Caspar, seeing what was the drift of the good-natured Quaker. "You mean to let me get away."

"Just so. I won't take it upon me to advise thee. Thee can do as thee likes, of course. But if thee shouldn't think best to run any risks—Thee sees thy people have done a good many hard things in the Jerseys, and folks is naturally put out. Of course we expect the British to fight us, but when it comes to folks we never had any quarrel with, and never did anything to, coming over and abusing our women-folks and stealing our goods—well, if it wasn't against the testimony of Friends, I don't say but I should feel like fighting myself."

"But you see, we can't help it," said Caspar. "Nobody asked us if we would come. Our king sold us to the English king, and we couldn't help ourselves. I was carried away from my family, and never allowed even to bid them good-bye."

"Then, if I was thee, and didn't see it to be against my conscience, I'd run away first chance I got. Well, good-night! I thought I'd tell thee, and thee could do as thee liked. Good-night! I hope thee 'll sleep."

It was kind to hope so, but there was little chance of the hope being realized. Caspar's mind was in a whirl of excitement trying to decide upon his course. He might escape, it was true; but reviewing all the circumstances, he thought the chances were against him. It must be nearly morning already. He would soon be missed and pursued, and were he retaken, he could hardly hope for mercy. On the other side of the river, he might possibly find shelter with some Tory family, had he only known where to look for them, but he had lost his list, and could not remember a single name save that of Joses Dandy, who seemed more likely to want protection than to afford it. He rose and went to the window, which opened easily enough. It was already growing light.

"Heaven help me, for I am in a sore strait!" was his prayer.

He leaned for a few minutes against the window-frame. Then he spoke aloud in German:

"No, I will not try to get away. This man Elmer owes me two lives—his own and his child's. It will go hard but he will find some way to save me if I tell him the truth. I have prayed that a way might be opened for me to leave the army, and it may be this is the answer to my prayer."

Caspar knelt down and prayed earnestly for a few minutes. Then he extinguished his light and threw himself on Deborah Whitecar's clean and soft feather bed. His head ached and he felt strangely tired and excited, but after a time he fell into a troubled sleep.

It was broad day when he awoke, and for some minutes he could not remember what had happened or where he was. He felt weak and unnerved, and almost as if he were out of the body. What in the world had happened to his hands to make them so thin and white? And why did he find such a difficulty in turning himself over? He looked about him. He felt sure this was not the room in which he had gone to sleep. It was a larger and better-furnished apartment, and his bed had full white curtains.

A middle-aged woman in a muslin cap and a wonderfully neat plain dress sat knitting at the side of his bed, and rose as his eye met hers.

"Thee is better?" said she, taking his hand into her soft fingers and feeling his pulse. "The doctor said he thought thee would be all right on waking.—Kitty, thee may tell Discretion to bring the broth."

"Better! Have I been ill?" asked Caspar, bewildered.

"Hush! Thee mustn't talk. Yes, thee has been sick abed fur three weeks, and out of thy head all the time. Thee 'll hear all about it when thee is better. Now thee must take thy broth, and perhaps thee may sleep again."

Caspar took the delicate broth which his nurse held to his lips, and then, sinking back on his pillows, he began to try to think a little. He seemed to remember now that some time had passed, that he had seen people about him whom he did not know, and that he had heard some one say,—

"I think he will live through it."

But thinking was hard and sleepy work, and he soon dropped off again. When he woke, the setting sun was sending rays through the closed blinds, and his nurse was standing by the bed with a gentleman who was engaged in feeling his pulse.

"Well, my man, you have come out on the right side this time," said the doctor, cheerfully. "You must have a pretty good constitution. I don't see anything now to hinder you getting well directly."

CHAPTER VIII.

NEWS AND PLANS.

FOR several days Caspar lay in Deborah Whitecar's best bed, very weak and languid and comfortable, and decidedly indisposed to any greater mental or physical exertion than that of taking his broth and answering the doctor's questions, or speculating idly on the bit of landscape and river which he could see out of his window.

Then he began to recover rapidly, to feel a profound interest in the dinner-hour, to sit up while his bed was made, and at last, to Kitty's great delight, to be dressed and walk to the window. His mind was now quite clear as to all that had happened up to the time when Recompense Joake visited him in his room and showed him how he might escape. After that, everything was in a fog. He dimly remembered hearing voices about him, especially Kitty's, and being well cared for, but that was all. His nurse, though kindness itself, was very peremptory and would not allow him to talk, and even Kitty would only answer all his inquiries by laying her small finger on her lip, and, if he persisted, by vanishing from the room.

One day, he was sitting by his window looking out at the winding river and the pretty village, of which he could see a bit on the other side. He was feeling more than commonly downhearted and lonely. He had never been seriously ill in all his life before; he did not know what to make of the weakness which oppressed him; and, like most men under similar circumstances, he thought he should never be any better. He had heard no public news, and nobody had given him a hint as to what was to be done with him. In this mournful case he was sitting, leaning both elbows on the window-sill with his head on his hands, when he was aroused by a cheerful voice behind him:

"Well, this is an improvement on the last time I saw you, but you would hardly handle a sledge as well as at our first meeting."

Caspar looked round to see a gentleman whose face he seemed dimly to remember, though he could not at first tell where they had met.

"You are in a fog, I see," said the stranger, smiling. "Don't you remember the Mischianza and the assistant Major André found for you?"

"And you are Jonathan Elmer?" said Caspar, shaking the hand the other held out to him.

"Yes, and your friend Kitty's father. I little thought, when we parted in Philadelphia that night, how we should meet again. How are you feeling?"

"Very much better, thank you, if only I could gain strength."

"You will soon do that when you are able to get out of doors. Do you feel equal to a little talk about your own and public affairs?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" answered Caspar, eagerly. "I have so longed to hear some news! But first tell me how you escaped."

"Easily enough," answered Captain Elmer. "In fact, I had no need to escape, for no one had thought of suspecting me. I went home to my lodging, and the next morning, having gained all the information I wanted, I walked away as I had come, made a circuit, and joined my regiment. And now, in return for my story, tell me how you came hither, for I don't suppose you came 'on purpose' to drive away the bear, as Kitty says."

Caspar replied by detailing the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted.

"Then you really were a spy as well as myself, though not so successful. I remember that fine Major André saying that you would do good service in that line."

"It was not Major André, but one of our own officers, to whom I was indebted," said Caspar. "I had no choice, you know: I had to obey orders."

"That is of course. But what do you mean to do now?"

"That is not for me to say. I am a prisoner, and I suppose under sentence of death."

"Hardly as bad as that," said Captain Elmer, smiling. "It is true that death is usually the portion of a detected spy, but circumstances alter cases. In the first place, you saved my own life and my child's. In the second, you have acquired no information; and if you had, you have had no chance to communicate it, and it would be of no use to your commander as things are at present. Neither do I suppose you are possessed of any knowledge which would be of use to us."

"If I have, I would not give it you," said Caspar. "I have no wish to return to the British service, but nothing shall induce me to act against my old comrades."

"There is no need," said Captain Elmer. "I suppose you have heard no public news."

"Not a word."

"Then you don't know that Sir Henry Clinton has evacuated Philadelphia a month ago, and been beaten by the American forces on his way across the Jerseys?"

"Beaten!" Caspar's face expressed the surprise he felt.

"Why, yes, it amounted to that. The Americans encamped upon the ground, and Sir Henry ran away in the night. That looks like being beaten, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does; and yet I hardly know how to believe it. I wonder what old Von Falkenstein said?"

"I fancy there were plenty of hard things said on both sides. The triumph would have been much greater only for Lee's conduct."

"And the Americans are in Philadelphia?" said Caspar, as if he could not yet believe the news.

"Yes, and a good many of your own countrymen besides."

"Prisoners?"

"No; deserters. It was curious to see the poor fellows creeping out of every hole and corner, some of them half-starved. There have been still more desertions on the line of march."

"I can hardly blame my countrymen, though I could not make up my own mind to desert," said Caspar. "I don't very well see how I can return now if I wish it ever so much."

"Under other circumstances you might be exchanged," said Captain Elmer. "As it is, such a move might provoke inconvenient inquiries. My serious advice to you, Reinhart, is to remain where you are till your strength returns, and then go to work at your trade. You will find no trouble in supporting yourself and laying up money.—I think you said you had a wife and family?"

"Yes; I have, or had, a wife and four children at home."

"Well, this war cannot last for ever, and it can end only in one way," said Captain Elmer, who, like most Americans, had not the slightest doubt of the success of his country's cause. *

* This hopeful spirit was never stronger than in the darkest days of the Revolution.

"By that time, you may probably have enough beforehand to send for your wife and children, and settle yourselves comfortably where your boys can grow up in a free country and be as good as anybody."

Caspar drew a deep breath.

"That sounds very nice," said he; "but—"

"Well, but what?"

"I can hardly tell," said Caspar, "but the future looks dark to me. I fear I shall never do a day's work again."

"Nonsense! You will be as well as ever in a month."

"And where shall I find work, supposing I am able to do it?"

"Where shall you not find it, you might better say," returned Captain Elmer, with a little impatience. "Anywhere! Here in Greenwich—up in Bridgeton, where the greatest fool that ever slung a sledge is worth his weight in gold, let alone a clever workman like yourself. There is my uncle's forge suffering for want of a journeyman this minute. Don't be so downhearted, man!"

"See here, Jonathan Elmer: if it wasn't interfering with thy arrangements, I should say thee was making Caspar talk more than was good for him, considering that he has been sitting up all the morning without anything to eat. Hadn't thee better stop now and let him have something?" said Recompense Joake, appearing at the door with his usual long face and a tray filled with good things for his patient.

"I dare say you are right," said Captain Elmer.—"Reinhart, why didn't you tell me I was tiring you to death?"

"If thee wasn't inexperienced in the ways of sick folks, I should say that was a foolish question," said Recompense, who seemed to find it necessary to put all his propositions hypothetically, as the logicians say. As he spoke, he quietly and quickly brought a small stand to the side of Caspar's arm-chair, arranged his provisions thereon, and brought the patient a basin of cool water to refresh his face and hands before eating.

"I declare, Recompense, you are a jewel!" said the captain, struck with admiration. "You are as handy as an old woman. You ought to be head-nurse in a hospital."

"My mother used to say there was a corner for every crooked stick if it could only be found," answered Recompense, busily cutting a delicate little broiled chicken into pieces of convenient size and pouring out a fragrant cup of spearmint tea. "I was always reckoned handy about sick folks, though I ain't very smart other ways. Thee 'd better come away now and let the man eat his dinner in peace. He has had talk enough for one day."

"He is getting on pretty well, isn't he?" asked Captain Elmer as they descended the stairs from Caspar's room.

"Well, middling," answered Recompense, with a true nurse's unwillingness to say that his patient was improving. "I've seen them get on faster, and I've seen them not so fast."

"I'm sorry he is so downhearted."

"Oh, thee needn't mind that. He will feel quite different when he has eaten his dinner and had a nap. Thee gave him rather too great a dose of talk with thy news and thy plans."

"I dare say I was stupid," said the captain, apologetically, "but I had thought it all over so many times, and he never said he was tired."

"Of course he didn't. Sick folks hardly ever do; and there's where well folks have got to look out for them. However, I don't think there's any harm done.—Has thee settled his matters, think?"

"Oh yes. There won't be any trouble, seeing that Clinton is out of the way and all Jersey is in our hands for the present," answered Captain Elmer. "There is nothing to hinder his going to work at his trade either here in Greenwich or at Bridgeton, but I should advise the latter, as being rather more out of the way."

"And thee thinks he won't be liable to be taken and hung for a deserter?"

"Not unless he takes a great deal of pains to bring it about. Clinton would have his hands fuller than they are now if he should undertake to catch and hang all the men that have deserted in his march across Jersey. Reinhart might go to Philadelphia without danger, but I believe he will do as well, or better, in Bridgeton."

As Recompense had predicted, Caspar was ready to take a brighter view of his circumstances after he had eaten his broiled chicken. The prospect which his friend held out to him was certainly alluring. The trade of war was utterly hateful to him, and particularly so the business of war and oppression, in which his countrymen were so largely engaged. He enjoyed the thought of returning to his old trade and living in peace with all mankind once more. Money, it was true, was likely to be scarce in the colonies, but it would go hard but he would lay up enough to purchase a bit of land, build himself a house, and make a home ready for his wife and the children against the time when he could send for them.

The thought of never seeing Nonnenwald again gave him for the present little concern. He had no near relatives; both his brothers had been killed in the Seven Years' War, into which they had been forced as he had been into his late situation. He could not be expected to feel very much loyalty toward his sovereign. No; he would make a home in this New World for himself and his family—such a house as he could see from his window on the other side of the river. He would buy a cow or two, and—But here the cows began to multiply themselves unaccountably, and the landgrave of Hesse to appear on the scene in the shape of a fat pig urgently begging not to be sold to Joses Dandy. In short, Caspar fell sound asleep in the midst of his day-dreams, and awoke mightily refreshed and able to take as reasonable a view of matters as his friend could desire.

The next day he was taken out for a drive, and the next he crept out for a little walk round the garden, leaning on the arm of his faithful nurse and accompanied by Kitty, whose delight at the recovery of her friend was unbounded. She had quite made up her quarrel with Recompense Joake, though they now and then had a little passage-at-arms. Caspar found much to admire and wonder at, and his companions had enough to do to answer his questions. The walk did him no harm, and the next day he was able to go down to the river-side.

Caspar now gained strength rapidly, and began to try his hand at little bits of work. He made a fine cradle for Kitty's doll. He mended all the hinges about the place, and treated a case of complicated disorder in the head of Deborah's spinning-wheel to the admiration of everybody. He took lessons in English, and read all the books in the house, and told stories about things in the old country, till Kitty clapped her hands with delight, and Recompense declared that if it were not a sin to repine, he should feel to be discontented at having seen so little of the world. Nay, it is said that worthy was actually heard to laugh aloud, thereby contradicting the notion prevalent among his friends that he did not know how to perform that operation.

Before the end of the summer months Caspar was settled in Bridgeton, and as busily engaged in shoeing horses and mending disabled wheels as he had ever been at his forge in Nonnenwald. He found, indeed, that he had a good deal to learn of American ways and customs, but in return he was able to give some valuable hints to his employer. He found that he was not so strong as he had been, and that the sledge-hammer was rather heavy. He cast about for some lighter work, and, discovering a good lathe which was disused because its former owner had been killed in the army, he bought it, put it in order, and proposed to his friend and employer that they should set up the business of making and repairing spinning-wheels, reels, and so forth. The venture was prosperous. He found his hands full of work, and seemed likely to become rich enough before long to purchase the place which he had already in his eye.

He had only one serious trouble, and it was a very great one: he had never heard a word from his family. He had written again and again, and Captain Elmer had given his letters to some of his friends among the French officers, on the chance of their going through France, but all in vain. Not a word came in reply. There was no such thing possible as going home. All that could be done was to wait with what patience and fortitude he could muster for that "end of the war" which every one prophesied, and which seemed every year to be farther off than ever. He was not without his comforts by the way, as who is who walks through the wilderness of this world with his eyes fixed on the Zion to which he has set his face?

It was a comfort to conquer the good-will of his neighbours, who, it must be confessed, were at first much disposed to treat him as a suspicious character, if not as a downright enemy. It was a comfort to make the first payment on the little wooden house with its tall upper story and picturesque cool "summer kitchen," characteristic of West Jersey houses, and to go over the same and plan out little additions to its beauty and convenience—to plant grapevines and currant-bushes and rose trees and yellow honeysuckles to fill the air with fragrance; to make a neat fence and plant a row of linden trees before the door, and to whitewash everything with snowy shell-lime in true West Jersey fashion.

By and by, he found a still greater comfort. There were in the neighbourhood of Bridgeton several German families who had come in and taken up small pieces of land shortly before the war. They were very poor and ignorant, and the children were growing up utterly wild and untrained. It occurred to Caspar that here was a place to do something for that Master who had done so much for him. It was perhaps too late to do very much with the parents, but there were the children—such a flock of them! Might they not be got together in some sort of school and taught to read their Bibles and to speak good English? It was not easy at first to gain the confidence of the children or the consent of their parents to any such plan, but the common language was a great help, and at last Caspar carried his point.

Sunday-schools, in the present sense, were unknown, but Caspar succeeded after a while in collecting together the urchins of the settlement for an hour or more on Sunday afternoon to teach them to read and to read to them out of the Bible. Presently, the spirit of ambition was roused, and some of them began to be eager to make more progress than was possible with a lesson once a week. Caspar could not be spared in the daytime, but his evenings were free. Three times a week he walked through the woods to the little settlement to hold an evening-school among his German friends.

There were not wanting some who smiled at his zeal, and others who plainly hinted that Caspar was not likely to take so much trouble for nothing, and that, most probably, some kind of plot was forming—perhaps to bring the Hessians down and burn the town. But in general, people had learned to believe in him, and his school proceeded in peace and increased in usefulness day by day.

On the nineteenth of October, 1781, the English forces at Yorktown under Lord Cornwallis surrendered, and the war was virtually at an end, but it was not till the twentieth of January, 1783, that the treaty of peace was formally and finally signed at Paris. The news reached Congress on the twenty-third of March, and soon spread through the country.

When Caspar heard that peace was proclaimed, he felt that he could wait no longer. He must obtain news of his family at any risk. He resolved to go to Philadelphia, and if needful to New York, find out some vessel sailing to Europe, and proceed at least to some point near his former home from which he could communicate with his family. He had abundance of money for the purpose, and only waited till he could leave his former employer and present partner without too much inconvenience, and find a suitable tenant for his house to keep it in order till his return.

CHAPTER IX.

NONNENWALD.

WE must now return to Nonnenwald and the family of Gertrude Reinhart.

Gertrude had never wavered in her determination to go to America. For this end she saved and economized in every corner and worked almost night and day. She made butter and sold it, raised fowls and calves and fatted them for market; and when there was nothing else to be done, her flax-wheel was never idle. Meantime, she and her children ate the plainest food and wore their old clothes as long as they could be kept decent. Once possessed of an object to work for beyond the mere keeping of soul and body together, her spirits returned and increased with her toil, and every one remarked how well Gertrude Reinhart was looking, notwithstanding the fact that her light never seemed to go out by night, and she worked in the field like a man—a thing she had never done while her husband was at home.

Circumstances favoured her. A legacy from a distant relation enabled her to buy back the cows she had sold. The landgrave, moved by a tardy sense of justice, exempted from all taxes the families of the soldiers fighting in America. She found a ready sale for all her wares in the market at Fulda. No butter was so hard and yellow as hers, no cheese so well pressed and flavoured, and her fine thread was eagerly sought by the traders and by the lace-makers. She soon had money out at interest, and the interest was constantly added to the principal.

People said truly that Gertrude was growing a rich woman, and they added what was not true—that as she grew rich she became stingy in proportion. Gertrude was not stingy. The poor village idiot, the poor widow whose only son had been carried away to die of fever before he was fairly embarked for America, could have told a different story. So could the pastor, if he had chosen, but he was at this time most deeply interested in the heresies of the third century; and, though he did not forget to dispense the alms Gertrude put into his hand, he did forget where they came from, and very likely thought they rained down from the clouds like manna.

Of course the children had their share in the sacrifice. Gustaf was a hardy little fellow. He went to the village school, fed the hens, drove up the cows, and spent his spare time in any amusement which gave him the luxury of perpetual motion in the open air. He never lacked an appetite for his black bread and milk morning and night and his cabbage soup in the middle of the day, and took no trouble about his clothes so long as they were not fine enough to be hurt by birds-nesting in the woods or crystal-hunting in the torrent-beds on the mountain-side. He was a good and pleasant child, who always did well everything that could be done with hands; but he groaned sadly over his books, and the schoolmaster declared that all the birch-rods that ever grew in the Thuringerwald could never make a scholar of him. Uncle Franz had done more for him by promising to teach him the use of the rifle as soon as he could do a sum in compound division, and under the influence of that stimulus, Gustaf was making fair progress with his arithmetic.

Greta had begun with great enthusiasm the work of making and saving money, but perhaps she had not altogether counted the cost, for she was certainly growing rather tired of it. She had not realized that saving money to go to America meant wearing her last winter's frock, and buying no new ribbons, and laying aside her beloved lace-making for the more profitable work of feeding calves and hens and spinning woollen yarn. She had always considered herself somewhat superior to her cousins and the other village-girls of her own age, but this superiority somehow did not prevent her feeling mortified when Lenchen had a new stuff gown and petticoat and Truda a new red cloak of fine cloth, while she must furbish up the gown she had worn two years already and wrap herself in the cloak which was already threadbare. The very fact that she was vexed at such a little matter vexed her all the more, as it showed her that she was not quite the grand person she had believed herself to be, and certainly did not tend to make her more amiable.

If people could only have known "why" she did not go to the ribbon-peddler's booth at the fair and wore her old clothes, she should not have minded it so much; but Gertrude had thought it best to keep her design a secret—at least till she saw some probability of putting it into execution. Greta would not perhaps have been willing to give up the design of going to America, but she did wish in her heart that it had never been thought of. She began to think that perhaps life under the landgrave might not be so insupportable, after all.

Uncle Franz, who was growing old, had a young assistant, a certain grand-nephew; and what was more natural than that he should often go and see his relations, to give Philip a promising knot of wood for his carving or carry to his aunt a pair of the rabbits or birds which in the absence of the landgrave, who was growing rather fat for hunting, were the perquisites of the huntsman? It was quite beautiful to see what a dutiful step-nephew (if there be such a relation) Gertrude had found in Louis Rosekranz.

And Philip? Philip had grown large and strong, grave and manly. Assisted by an old labourer who had worked for his father, he did most of the labour of the little farm. His aim was to bring the place into the best of order against the time when he should wish to sell it, and meantime to make it produce enough for the support of the family. He had so far succeeded very well. The apple-orchard, pruned and cultivated once more, hung heavy with fruit, and the little vineyard had never been more productive. By degrees everything about the place was put into that state of perfect repair in which it had been Caspar's pride to maintain it. Even the forge was once more in order, and, rented to a responsible and industrious tenant, added its mite to the family revenues.

Philip had little time now for his favourite books, and his carving was mostly limited to bowls and spoons of pear-tree and walnut wood, some of them daintily ornamented with leaves and flowers and other devices, which found a ready sale in Fulda and Eisenach. He had made the cross for his little brother's grave and put it up in the churchyard. It was much admired, and before long he found on his hands more orders for crosses and tablets than he could fill in the long winter evenings, which were mostly devoted to this work.

He made it a rule to read a few lines every day of the Latin and Greek which he had learned with his uncle—a habit which kept him from forgetting entirely that which he had acquired, and which may be practised with great advantage by people in like circumstances. If he had any regrets or repinings, he kept them to himself or imparted than to nobody but Brother Gotthold, still a frequent visitor at the little stone cottage; and if he entertained any secret ambition, it was still Brother Gotthold who was privy to it. In fact, a very warm and intimate friendship existed between the old man and the young one.

Still the days went on, and no news came to the family at the stone house of the husband and father they had lost. Other people had letters, but, strangely enough, nobody said anything about Caspar Reinhart. At last, late in the autumn of the year 1782, came news that the regiment was coming home directly, that it had already landed and was on its way through Prussia, and, finally, that the men would reach their homes on All Saints' day, the first day of November. Everybody was in a joyful bustle of preparation, but there were many sad hearts sore with the loss of friends or sick with suspense, which scorned to grow more dreadful as it came near being changed to certainty.

Gertrude was one of the last of these. She would not admit even to herself that she expected to see her husband. She had said again and again to herself and to others that she was certain Caspar was dead, since he had never written, and that she only refrained from putting on mourning in deference to the feelings of her children. Nevertheless, the news she heard came to her with a fearful shock, and it lost nothing by the way in which she received it.

Captain Burger's company was one of the last in the train which entered the village on All Saints' day. The worthy captain was not in a good-humour. He had missed the promotion which he had confidently expected. He had not married a fortune, as he fully intended to do, nor had he enriched himself with plunder, like some others. To do him justice, the latter circumstance did not arise from any lack of zeal or industry on his part, but rather to an inveterate habit of gambling. In short, the doughty captain was under a cloud, and not unlikely to remain so.

"Your husband, woman? What should I know of your husband?" he answered, roughly enough, when Gertrude questioned him.

"What was his name?"

"Caspar Reinhart—a smith from Nonnenwald," answered Gertrude, briefly.

"Oh, Caspar Reinhart! Yes, yes, I remember," said he, pretending to consider. "Oh yes! He deserted one fine day to escape the flogging he richly merited, and was drowned in the bay. Never mind, good woman; I dare say you may easily get another as good."

Gertrude turned away with ashy cheeks and compressed lips, and went into the house. She thought, as so many have thought under like circumstances that she had given him up before; but giving up is not so easy. Greta and Gustaf were drowned in tears, but Gertrude had no tears to shed. She went about her housework as usual, but with such a face that the neighbours who came to condole with her in her grief went away scared at her unnatural composure and strange looks, and whispered among themselves that Gertrude Reinhart was going mad.

Later in the day, Philip came in.

"Where is my mother?" he said to Greta, who was still sobbing in passionate abandonment of grief.

"She is out feeding the hens. I cannot tell what ails her," answered Greta. "I cannot make her keep quiet or speak a word. Do try to see what you can do. Perhaps she will hear you. Where have you been all this thee?"

"Gathering news," said Philip. "I did not believe that man's story, and I have been asking my father's comrades about him.—Mother dear, will you come here?" he called, stepping to the door. "I have something to tell you."

Philip's voice conveyed perhaps more of hopefulness than he felt.

Gertrude came at once into the house, and sat down in the chair which Philip placed for her. Her eyes were still dry and glittering, but her colour changed and she looked less ghastly.

"I have been talking with the men," Philip began, without any preface. "That brute's news was not true, or at least not certain. Sergeant Meyer tells me that my father did not desert, but was exchanged into Von Falkenstein's troop of horse, where he was regimental smith."

Gertrude drew a deep breath.

"That wretch!" said Greta. "I should like to kill him."

"Let him alone for a fool," said Philip. "Meyer says that so long as he was with the regiment, my father bore the best character for steadiness and good conduct; that he might have deserted a dozen times over if he had chosen, and as hundreds did, but he was always at his post and ready for duty; that no man could be braver in action, though he always refused to help plunder and kill the poor country-people, and would always protect the women and children when he could; and he believes Burger spited him for that very reason."

Gertrude's eyes had grown softer, and now overflowed with grateful tears.

"'I' never believed father would do anything dishonourable," said Gustaf, proudly. "He might be killed, but he would never run away."

"But you heard no certain news?" said Gertrude.

"No. Meyer says the Waldeckers went south after they left Philadelphia, and they never met again. The Waldeckers were in the last great battle—Yorktown, I think they call it—where the great English lord surrendered to the Americans. They came home two months ago, and Colonel von Falkenstein, Meyer says, is living in his own home near Waldeck. With your permission, dear mother, I will go thither, and it will be hard, but I will obtain certain news of my father."

"And how will you manage to gain access to him, my son? He is a great man, I suppose."

"I have thought of that," answered Philip. "Count von Meyren is Herr von Falkenstein's own cousin, and they are great friends. I am sure he will give me a letter to his cousin when I tell him why I want it. He was always kind to me when I lived in Fulda. And even if I do not see Herr von Falkenstein himself, I shall find plenty of old soldiers who knew my father."

"Bless thee, my son! Thou art thy father's own boy, and shalt do as thou wilt," said Gertrude. "Anything is better than this uncertainty. When will you set out?"

"This very day, if Uncle Franz will lend me a horse and you will furnish me with money. I can go to Fulda to-night, and see the count to-morrow morning. Then I can set out on my journey to Waldeck to-morrow afternoon."

"I wish I could go," said Gustaf.

"You must stay at home and take care of the mother and Greta," answered Philip, his spirits rising, as they always did when he found anything to do. "But if mother is willing, you shall come with me to Uncle Franz to see if he will lend me the old gray."

"You are very confident," said Greta, feeling a certain degree of vexation for which she would have found it hard to account. "I don't believe you will find it so easy to gain access to all these grand people as you think. If you could persuade Louis Rosekranz to go—" She paused, and was provoked to find herself colouring under Philip's look and smile.

"Louis Rosekranz is a good fellow, but I prefer to do my own business myself, little sister," said Philip. "I know all the good old count's ways exactly, even to the sunny terrace where I shall find him pacing up and down with two dogs after him at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. He never refuses to hear the poorest woman or child on his estate who comes to him with a petition.—Come, Gustaf; there is no time to lose."

Philip found his uncle overflowing with rage at Captain Burger, and quite ready to lend him not only his best horse, but his best pair of pistols into the bargain.

Another good fortune awaited him at the lodge in the person of his old friend, Count Maurice, who had come down for a few days' shooting. Count Maurice had grown older and graver, and was dressed in mourning. He remembered Philip directly, and on hearing the object of his journey, he at once offered his assistance.

"I know Von Falkenstein, and will give you a note to him, which will save you so much time. He is a good-natured old man at heart, but you must not be discouraged if he is crabbed at first. He is a good deal like some of the stones of the mountain here—rough and hard without, but pure and clear within.—I hear that your mother is living and doing well. Does she still keep up her intention of going to America?"

"Yes, Your Highness, but we do not speak of it yet. I hope Count Victor is well?"

Maurice's face saddened.

"Victor has left me," said he. "He died in great peace and hope a year ago. I may well do all I can for you, Philip, since to you was indirectly owing the comfort which brightened my dear brother's last days. But I cannot talk of it now. I am coming to see your mother before I leave. Here is your uncle with the horse; and a grand old fellow he is, with plenty of fire in him still. Are you sure you are equal to managing him?"

"I think so, Your Highness!"

"Philip? He will handle any horse that ever stepped, as quiet as he looks," said Franz as he put the bridle into Philip's hands.—"There, my boy! Good luck go with you!—There goes as fine a young fellow as ever stepped on shoe-leather," he added as Philip rode away. "Not a bit of show or bravado about him, but always prompt and ready for action, whatever it may be. His father was just so before him."

Philip made his journey in two days and part of another, and arrived at Waldeck in the afternoon. He put up his horse at a decent little inn, and after taking some refreshment and getting rid of the soil of the journey, he asked his way to Herr von Falkenstein's house.

"You have but to follow your nose up the street and you come to the gates as soon as you cross the bridge," answered the host. "The old Herr is at home, I know, for I saw him this very day."

Philip found his way easily enough; and accosting the first domestic he met, he made known to him his desire to speak with his master.

"And who are you who desire to see the Herr?" asked the man, with some insolence. "Do you think he is to be at the beck and call of every booby, like a country doctor?"

"I have a letter and message for him from Count Maurice of Nassau," answered Philip, keeping his temper, though the man's manner was sufficiently provoking.

"Well, give them to me, and I will deliver them."

"With your allowance, no. I was to put the letter into the Herr's own hands."

"Yes, that is a likely story. Give me the letter if you have one, or I will have you chased off the place."

"Or be chased off yourself," said a tall, gray-haired old man who had been an unseen spectator, stepping forward from behind a screen. "Who is this to whom you use such threats without your master's knowledge?"

The servant looked blank and crestfallen enough.

"It is—it is only a country-fellow, Your Excellency," he stammered. "He pretends to have a letter for Your Excellency, and I thought Your Excellency would not care to be troubled, if Your Excellency pleases."

"My Excellency will please to lay my cane about your ears some day," said the gray-haired man, whom Philip at once guessed to be Von Falkenstein himself.—"What are your name and business, young man?"

"My name is Philip Reinhart, and I have a letter from Count Maurice to Your Excellency," answered Philip, quietly as usual, though his heart was beating so as almost to stop his breath.

"Reinhart? Reinhart? I should know the name," said the old gentleman, musingly.

He broke the seal of the note, which Philip handed him, and glanced over it.

"Yes, yes, I understand," said he, kindly. "I thought I knew the name, and the face also, I might say, for you are very like your father. I remember him well. But this is not the place to talk of such matters. Follow me."

He led the way to a room, part parlour and part study, and, as it seemed, part armoury and harness-room, from the number of saddles and bridles, guns, hunting-knives, and such like matters which covered the walls and floor.

Two or three dogs lay before the small wood-fire which burned on the hearth, and a big cat was nursing her brood of kittens in the great leather-covered arm-chair.

Colonel von Falkenstein cleared a chair fur Philip and took another for himself—not the arm-chair, however. Philip took the seat offered him, and waited to be spoken to.

"And so you are Reinhart's son?" said the colonel, after he had read over Count Maurice's note more than once. "On my word, you are a fine young fellow, and I wish I had better news for you of your father. He was a good, faithful, honest man, and the best smith I ever saw."

Philip saw that the old gentleman was anxious to soften bad news; and though he would rather have heard it in the shortest, bluntest words in which it could be put, he felt the kindness intended.

"My poor father is dead, then?" said he.

"I cannot but fear so, my lad. He was sent on secret service—as a spy, in short—into the country down the bay—West Jersey, they call it. It was through no good-will of mine, I assure you. But they sent him. He put off in a boat from the fort down the river, and that was the last seen of him, but there was a terrible thunder-storm the next night, and two or three days after, the boat, leaky and broken, was found floating upside down in the bay. Your father's watch-coat was found entangled in the thwarts; and though, of course, there is not absolute certainty, I fear there is little doubt that he perished in the storm. He was a good, brave Christian man, and died in the discharge of his duty, if that is any comfort to you.—There! be a man, my poor boy."

"It is a comfort, Your Excellency," said Philip as soon as he could speak. "Captain Burger told my mother that my father had deserted to avoid punishment."

"Burger is a hound!" said Von Falkenstein, so angrily that the cat looked up and uttered a startled remonstrance. "He has not so much manhood about him as this dog. No, Philip Reinhart, your father died as he had lived—like a soldier and a Christian; and it is not always easy to be both, I can tell you. Many a time I have seen him sitting on the ground or a stone reading his Bible when the other men would be drinking or at dice. It was a shame to send him on such an errand, and never would have happened but for his folly in spending so much time learning English. But we all have our follies."

Philip rose to go.

"Oh, you must not leave me so soon," said the old gentleman. "You are not fit to travel, and it grows late. How did you come hither?"

"On horseback, Your Excellency, as far as the village."

"And you left your horse at the inn, eh?"

Philip assented.

Colonel von Falkenstein opened the door and found Philip's first acquaintance standing conveniently near the door—in fact, somewhat suspiciously so.

"Eavesdropping, eh?" said the colonel.

"I was only waiting to show the young man out, Your Excellency."

"Oh! Well, to reward your diligence, you may send Martin hither, and then go down to the stable and tell one of the men to go to the inn and ask for a horse belonging to—let me see—to Philip Reinhart. Tell him to bring the horse up here and take good care of him. I would send you, only I know you would be afraid of the horse. Do you understand, or must I say it all over again?—The booby plagues my life out," he added as the man disappeared in a hurry, "but you see, he is a widow's son and I can't turn him away, though I have to rate him now and then. Discipline must be upheld in such a family as mine, or all goes to ruin.—There! Is that gray kitten playing with my seals again? I will have them all drowned to-morrow. Cats are always torments."

So saying, he lifted the small offender very gently from his writing-table, stroked it till it purred loudly, and then restored it to the side of its mother, where it remained for about the space of a flash of lightning.

Martin now made his appearance, a tall, gray-headed man like his master, with the scar of a fearful sabre-cut making his face more grim than it was by nature.

"Oh, here you are! Martin, you remember Reinhart the smith, eh? Well, this is his son come to ask news of his father.—And why does every widow and orphan in the country come to me for news of their friends?" cried the old man, angrily. "Can I help people being killed when they go in war?"

Apparently, Martin did not think this riddle capable of a solution, for he remained at "attention," and said never a word.

"Well, well!—Philip Reinhart, this man is an old comrade of your father's, and loved him well. He can tell you all about him.—Martin, take him with you and make him comfortable, and see that the men take care of his horse. You have a good horse, eh? You would make a famous trooper yourself; would he not, Martin?"

"Too light," said Martin.

"Nonsense! You think every one too light who is not as big as your master or yourself—Eh! What's this?" as the irrepressible gray kitten came swarming up his back as if he had been a tree. "These torments of cats! I will have them all drowned to-morrow."

"I can drown them to-night if Your Excellency desires," said Martin.

"No, no! You have enough to do; and besides, why should you hurt the little innocent things?" answered his master, hastily and somewhat angrily. "What harm have they done you, that you are in such a hurry to kill them?"

Martin smiled grimly, but made no reply.

"There! Go now with Martin, and don't grieve too much, and tell your mother not to grieve too much. Your father was a brave soldier and a good Christian, and—and the best smith I ever saw; and doubtless she will meet him in heaven," said the colonel, mixing up his words rather oddly in his sincere desire to console Philip. "She is poorly off, eh? A little ready money, now—"

"Oh no, Your Excellency; we are well-to-do," answered Philip, somewhat hastily, as the colonel put his hand in his pocket. "I thank you for the thought; but, so far as that goes, we need nothing."

"That is well; I am glad to hear it," answered the colonel. "That isn't as bad as if she did not know where to turn for a meal for her children.—There, Martin!"—suddenly changing the subject. "Somebody has broken the cat's basin again. I must have a wooden one. See and provide one."

Philip resolved in his mind that the colonel should have such a wooden basin as never lady-cat rejoiced in before. He made his bow, and followed Martin to his own apartment—a snug room in a tower of the old castle-like pile, in much better order than his master's.

"There! Sit down, sit down!" said Martin, making Philip comfortable. "We will have our supper here, and then we can talk in peace. I have a good deal to say to you."

The supper was produced, and a savoury one it was, but Philip's heart was too full for him to eat. Now that the last glimmering spark of hope was put out, he knew how carefully he had cherished it.

"And so you came all the way over here to get news of your father, eh?" said Martin, after he had lighted his pipe.

"And only to hear that there is no more hope of seeing him alive," said Philip, sadly. "Only that certainty is better for my mother than suspense, I might have saved my journey. We shall never see my father again till the sea gives up its dead."

"I am not so sure of that," said Martin.

Philip looked at him in surprise.

"One does not tell all one knows even when he has Von Falkenstein for a master," continued Martin.

He took a few more pulls at his pipe, and then added, "I don't think it by any means certain that your father is dead."

Philip started from his chair.

"Sit down, sit down!" said the old man. "I will tell you all I know, and then you can judge for yourself how much to believe. There was a man named Dandy who used to sell eggs, butter, and cheese in the British and Hessian camp while we were in Philadelphia. He was what they call a Tory, and a great scamp, like most of them. His neighbours found him out, so he had to leave his home, and he became a regular camp-follower. I saw him down at Yorktown, where we surrendered to the Yankees. Ah! They made it hot for us, I can tell you. I never saw hotter work."

Philip was on fire with impatience, but he prudently refrained from interruption.

"Where was I?" continued Martin. "Yes, I know. I saw this Dandy. He was from that very part of the country whither your father was sent, and he told me that your father was taken prisoner, and would have been hung, only he pretended to have saved the life of a child belonging to one of the Yankee officers that was lost in the woods. That was the way he put it, you see. It was plain he had a great spite at your father for something, though I didn't find out what. Well, to make a long story short, he said your father was released, and that he was living somewhere in West Jersey—he told me the name of the town, but I can't remember it—and was working as a smith and making plenty of money."

"Do you think it can be true?" said Philip, feeling as if he were in a dream.

"I think so. I asked the man if he were sure, and he said yes, he had seen those who knew him. I meant to see him again, but unluckily he was mixed up in a drunken quarrel that very night—he had got to be a terrible drunkard—and was knocked on the head, so that he never knew anything afterward, and died in a few days. I never told the colonel, for in the army one learns not to tell all one knows. It might by chance have made your father trouble."

"And you think it can be true?" said Philip again.

"Oh yes; there is nothing improbable in it. Very likely he did save the child, and they let him off in consequence. He couldn't have got back to the army very well if he had wished, for we left Philadelphia about that time, and the Yankees gave us lively times crossing Jersey."

"But the boat?"

"Well, that might have floated off when he landed. Anyhow, there is the story."

"It is strange my father should not have written!" said Philip.

"He wrote before he left the army, I know, for he gave me the letter, and I put it in the way to be sent. But half the letters were lost. Afterward, he would not have many chances.—There! I must go and wait on my master at supper. Sit you quiet here, or go out to walk if you like, but come back hither. The colonel said you were to lodge here to-night."

"He is very kind, but it is not necessary," said Philip. "I have money enough to stay at the inn."

"No, no! You must not think of it!" said Martin, hastily. "The colonel would never forgive you, or me either."

Philip resigned himself. He was not sorry to be alone a while to arrange his ideas.

When he again saw Martin, he plied him with questions: "Was Jersey a large place? Were there many towns? How did one go to reach it?"

All of which questions Martin answered with the utmost good-humour.

"I see what is brewing in your young head, but don't be in a hurry. Think well of it."

"I will," said Philip, but he had already made up his mind what to do.

CHAPTER X.

CONCLUSION.

PHILIP had a prosperous journey homeward, and found Gustaf on the lookout for him a little beyond the village.

"Oh, Philip, are you come? Won't you take me up, please?"

"You shall ride all alone, and I will walk beside you," said Philip, dismounting and putting Gustaf into the saddle, but keeping his own hand on the bridle.

"Has anything happened at home?"

"Brother Gotthold has come; and only think, Philip! He is going to America. I wish he would take me."

"Perhaps we shall all go some time," said Philip, thinking as he spoke that the way was already opening for his scheme.

"Really?" said Gustaf with sparkling eyes.

"Yes, really; but you must not tell any one. Show now that you are a man and can keep a secret. How is the mother?"

"I don't know," replied Gustaf, his face saddening. "She does not cry; but she looks—oh, so sad! Did you hear any news?"

"Yes, plenty; but I must tell mother first. You shall hear."

Philip found the preacher seated by the fireside. He was growing old, but his frame seemed as vigorous and his mind as clear and active as ever.

Gertrude received her son with a warm and silent embrace. She hastened to provide supper for him, but never asked a question as to the success of his errand till he had eaten and seated himself by the fire. And Philip, who had a comprehension of and sympathy with his mother's moods to which Greta could never attain, said nothing of all that was in his mind.

At last Gertrude asked a question: "You have news, my son? Good or bad?"

"Good, I trust, mother—not absolutely certain, but probably so. I believe I have reason to think my father may be alive and doing well."

There was a dead silence while Philip told his tale.

"And is that all?" said Greta, in a tone of deep disappointment, as he paused. "I do not see that it comes to anything. One man told another that my father was living somewhere in that great wilderness—that is all."

"Not exactly so, Greta. He was living in a town in one of the smaller provinces—Jersey is its name. It is not a wilderness, since old Martin told me they have fine towns, farms, and churches, and even a college."

"A college! Yes, that is very likely!"

"I believe it is true," said Brother Gotthold. "There are several colleges in America, and many fine towns, as I can show you, since I have in my pocket a map of the country. The city to which I am going—Philadelphia—is a very large and fine one, I hear."

"Larger than Eisenach?" asked Gustaf.

"Oh yes, much larger, and a place of great wealth and trade. See, here it is; and here, across this great river, is the province of which Philip speaks."

All crowded round to look at the map, which Brother Gotthold spread out on the table. It was a tolerably good one, shading off at the west into indefinite space, but with the eastern provinces plainly laid down.

"What a great country!" said Gustaf. "Is it bigger than Germany?"

"Yes, larger than all Germany, and Holland thrown in."

"Yes, here is Jersey," said Philip.

"If one only knew in what town to look!" sighed Greta.

"There are not so many but that one might look in all of them in the course of a year," said Philip, attentively studying the map. "They seem to have roads, too."

"What are you thinking of, my son?" said his mother. "I can see that you have some plan in your head?"

"First tell me, dear mother, is it still your wish to go and live in America?"

"It is, more than ever if that were possible," said Gertrude, firmly. "I wish we were ready to depart when Brother Gotthold goes next month, but that cannot be."

"Then, mother, this is my plan," said Philip: "Let me go out with Brother Gotthold. Once in America, I will visit in turn every town and village in Jersey, and seek everywhere for news of my father. Meantime, I can also be seeking out a home for the rest of you, and making it ready against your coming. Or should I find the country totally unfit for us, I can return, and the loss will be less than if we all went."

"How can you come back when you have spent all your money?" asked Greta.

"I will go to work and earn more," answered Philip. "I remember Count Maurice said labour was never to seek there."

"And if you are burned by the Indians or hung by the Yankees?" said Greta.

"There is little danger of that," remarked Brother Gotthold. "The Indians are only troublesome on the western border, and the Americans are a kind and humane people, and very hospitable to strangers."

"So old Martin says. He told me that at first, when the Hessian prisoners were sent through the country to the place where they were to be kept, the people railed at them. But the great American general—Washington is his name—caused notice to be published everywhere that the Hessians had not come to fight of their own free will, but because they were forced to do so. After that they were treated with the greatest kindness, the country-people bringing out provisions for them and comforts for the sick and wounded. * If they would do that in time of war, they would not be less kind in time of peace."

* See "The Journal of a Hessian Officer," quoted by Irving.

"But the people speak English, I understand, Philip, and you know no English."

"I must learn what I can on the voyage. I presume some one on the ship will speak it."

"I will teach you," said Brother Gotthold. "English is regularly studied in all our schools, as the missionaries never know when they may be sent to some of the English-speaking colonies. I have been making a business of perfecting myself in the language of late, and it will help me greatly to impart what I have learned."

It struck Philip as curious that both the preacher and his mother spoke of his proposed journey as already a settled matter.

"Perhaps we have talked enough for to-night," said he. "To-morrow we will take it up again."

"And if you do go on this wild-goose chase—for such I must say it seems to me—who is to take care of my mother and the farm while you are away?"

"My mother herself, with you and Gustaf to help her; and Louis Rosekranz, perhaps," answered Philip. "We shall see about that. But you must allow, sister, that if we make this move, on which my mother's heart is set, it is better for me to go first."

"Yes, 'if' we go. I wish we had never thought of going," said Greta, vehemently.

"Why, Greta, you used to be the most earnest in the scheme of any of us. You used to accuse me of being a spoil-sport if I said a word against it, and you declared you would rather dwell in a cabin in the woods than live in a palace in the landgrave's dominions."

"What signifies bringing up every idle word one ever spoke?" said Greta, pettishly. "I was a child, and did not know what I was talking about. But I see there is no use in talking, since you have mother on your side. Nobody cares what I think or feel about anything."

The next day the matter was discussed in all its length and breadth in a grave family council, to which Uncle Franz and Louis Rosekranz were called.

Uncle Franz growled a little, thought it better to let well alone, but on the whole did not offer as much opposition as had been expected.

Louis Rosekranz was fired with enthusiasm at the very idea. He had been talking with the returned veterans, and had his head full of wonderful stories. Besides that, he had known a man who went to America with only his hands and tools, and now wrote back that he owned a hundred acres of land all his own. There were forests full of deer, bears, and wolves, rivers swarming with fish, and birds like the quails that the doctor read of from the Scripture. He would go with Philip himself, only that Uncle Franz needed him just now. His part should be to see that his aunt never wanted for anything which the most devoted son could give her while Philip was away.

Greta tossed her head and murmured something about people's waiting till they were asked, but it was noticeable that she entirely withdrew her opposition to Philip's plans, and worked with great zeal to further his preparations.

But unexpected delays occurred. The season was far advanced. A winter voyage was dangerous, and Brother Gotthold's directors decided that he had better wait till spring. Philip spent the winter in diligently studying English, and in carving for Herr von Falkenstein's cat such a basin and platter as drew forth the old gentleman's utmost approbation. It was not till April that Philip and his friend set sail, with every prospect of a prosperous voyage.

It was in the middle of June, 1783, that Caspar Reinhart called at the office of Fussell & Edelman, on the wharf at Philadelphia. They were German merchants, and he had been directed to them as the persons most likely to tell him what he wished to know.

"You are just in time," said old Mr. Fussell when he learned the stranger's business. "There is a ship from Hamburg just coming up the river at this moment. She has some emigrants on board, they tell me, and perhaps you may find friends among them. If you will wait a little, we will go down and see."

"If you please, sir, the 'Gem' has just come up to her berth," said a porter, hearing his employer's words.

"Good!" said the old man. "We will go down directly. Rather better to have peaceful merchantmen coming up the river than transports full of troops, eh?"

Caspar assented heartily. He was standing on the dock, rather sadly watching the passengers as they landed, when a hand was laid on his arm, and he turned round to see a tall, handsome youth, so like his youngest brother that he started as if he had seen a ghost.

"Father! Don't you know your little Philip?"

"My son, my son!—But your mother, dear boy?" said Caspar, after the first agitated greetings were over.

"Alive and well, dear father; but I have much to tell you."

"We will talk it all over at home, my boy. For I have a home fairer than the old one at Nonnenwald. I have made it ready, and this very day I came to find means of going to bring you all over. Thank Heaven, we did not miss each other on the way!"

In the course of another year, Gertrude Reinhart was fairly established in the tall white house, wondering greatly at American ways, but conforming to them quite as well as could be expected.

In another house not far away, Louis Rosekranz and his young wife were settled; and Louis was learning that in order to live even in America, he must attend to his farming and leave the game to take care of itself. He had discovered that it would never do to let his aunt take such a long journey alone; and having inherited a small property from his father, he determined to use it in purchasing a farm in the New World.

Gustaf went to school, helped his father in the shop, worked in the garden, and made himself useful and liked everywhere.

Philip's mind had for some time been turning strongly toward the ministry, and Brother Gotthold, whom he had consulted, encouraged him in the idea, seeing in him gifts and dispositions eminently suited for the work. His father was in easy circumstances and growing richer year by year, and he was both able and willing to afford his son all the help he needed. In a year from his landing, Philip was ready to enter Princeton College, from which he graduated with credit; and not long after, he was settled as pastor in one of the towns which were springing up all over the country. He married a wife who was a true help to him—a vivacious little gray-eyed woman, who, when she wished to coax her father-in-law to come and visit her, used to address him by the title of "Mr. Hessian."

Recompense Joake used to sometimes remark that if it did not seem like boasting, he should think he had done a good thing in nursing Caspar through that fever.

Several children were added to the household of Caspar and Gertrude Reinhart, and Greta sometimes found herself confused between her children and her brothers and sisters, but this circumstance is not supposed to have caused any serious inconvenience. The descendants of the two families are among the most respected citizens of New Jersey and various other States.

A certain Louis Rosekranz remarked the other day that he thought he had a right to go to the Centennial, because his great-grandfather fought in the war of the Revolution.

"On which side?" asked his father, smiling.

"Bother!" said Louis. "I never thought of that!"

THE END.

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Table of Contents

THE STORY OF A HESSIAN.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

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