After Stineli had repeated the prayer twice she said, "You can see from this that the whole kingdom belongs to God, and you can trust Him to find a home for you, because it also says that the power is His."

"If He has a home for me in His kingdom and has the power to give it, He clearly doesn't want to," retorted Rico.

"Have you asked Him to give it to you?"

"No."

"Grandmother said that we must ask for things we want. It is very likely that He thinks you can ask Him if you really want anything."

After a moment's silence Rico said, "Say the prayer once more; I will learn it."

In a short time they were walking back to the garden, where they parted for the night. On the way to the hotel Rico thought of the kingdom and the power. He felt convinced that he had neglected a sacred duty, and that night, in his cheerless attic room, he knelt by his bed and prayed.

Stineli meant to go in as soon as Rico left her, and tell Mrs. Menotti of his unhappiness, hoping that she might help the boy to find some more suitable employment, since he so disliked playing for dances, but this intention was not carried out, for Silvio had been taken suddenly ill while she was gone, and was lying exhausted on his pillow, flushed and breathing heavily. The mother sat crying softly beside him. Stineli had never seen him ill before, and she stood wondering what she should do.

Mrs. Menotti soon noticed her presence and said: "Sit down, Stineli; he is better now, and I should like to tell you about something that troubles me greatly. You are young, but I feel sure it will do me good to have you know about it.

"When Mr. Menotti and I were first married, he brought me here from Riva, where my father is still living. An old friend of my husband's lived here, but he wished to go away for a few years, because his wife had died and he found it too hard to live here without her; he wanted us to live on his place while he was away. He had a little house and a large farm of not especially good land, but since Mr. Menotti understood perfectly how to manage a farm, it was agreed between them, as intimate friends, that there was to be no rent; we were simply to keep everything in good condition so that he would find his place in order when he returned.

"A few years later the railway officials decided to build on the land, and paid much more than it was worth to get it. Mr. Menotti took the money, and being able to buy much better land, including this garden, he built this house. There was money enough to pay for it all. The land brought rich returns, and we prospered to such an extent that I was worried, for it did not belong to us. Mr. Menotti was happy over it because he had such a pleasant surprise for his friend, to whom he meant to turn it all over as soon as he returned; but he never came.

"As Silvio grew older, and I saw how weak he was, I feared that his illness might be sent as a punishment to us for living upon the profits of another's money, and I have felt the same to-night. Mr. Menotti died four years ago. I am sure I would gladly give things over to the rightful owner, if I could, but I don't know where to find him. The man may be sick somewhere, or in need, and it worries me beyond measure."

"I think you have no reason to worry, since you have done the best you could," said Stineli. "My grandmother taught me to ask God to make things right, if it was beyond my own power.

"I am worried about Rico," Stineli continued, "and I can do nothing for him, so I have asked God to help him, and Rico has promised that he will do his part. I feel sure that this burden can be lifted from you in the same way, if you will only ask Him to make it right in His sight. My grandmother has taught me that we are all governed in harmony by the Creator so long as we seek the divine will. It is like a great chorus in which every member sings in tune because he is governed by the harmony of music, and so I always try to put myself back where I belong, when I feel any discord. I have never been disappointed in trusting God with the results."

"You are a wise girl, Stineli, and you have truly comforted me," said Mrs. Menotti, as she kissed Stineli and bade her good night.

CHAPTER XX

"You alarm me, Mrs. Menotti. You are not thinking of going away?"

"I beg your pardon, Rico, for speaking so thoughtlessly; I should not have mentioned it." She changed the subject, and presently, recalling what Stineli had told her the previous evening about Rico's trouble, she began to wonder what it could be. She had been so absorbed in her own affairs at the time that she had given it but a moment's thought.

"Won't you tell me, Rico, why you came to Lake Garda? Stineli told me last evening that you used to long to come here. Were you ever here before?"

"Yes, when I was a child, but I was taken away."

"How did you happen to come here as a child?"

"I came into the world here."

"You were born here? Who was your father, and why did he come here from the mountains?"

"He wasn't from the mountains; it was my mother who lived there."

"Why, Rico, your father was not a Peschieran?"

"He surely was, Mrs. Menotti; this was his home."

"How very strange! And you never have told me this in all these years! Feeling that you did not care to talk of your earlier life, I have never asked you to tell me your last name. But 'Rico' is not Italian. What was your father called?"

"The same as I, Enrico Trevillo."

Mrs. Menotti sprang from the seat as if she had been struck. "What are you saying?" she exclaimed. "What did you say just now?"

"My father's name," said Rico. "Why, what is the matter?"

Mrs. Menotti did not stay to answer him. She ran to the house and hastily said to Stineli: "Get me a wrap, please. I must go over to see the pastor, but I will be back soon and explain."

Stineli, much astonished, put a cape around the trembling form.

"Come with me, Rico, for I want to ask a few questions," said Mrs. Menotti, but she was so agitated that she could think of nothing to ask except if he were sure that Enrico Trevillo was his father. Rico returned to the house after leaving Mrs. Menotti with the pastor. Stineli and Silvio were laughing over a funny story when he arrived. As soon as Silvio saw the violin he shouted, "Let us sing 'Little Lambs' with Stineli, because Rico is here to play."

Rico had learned a great number of new songs, so that Stineli had nearly forgotten all about "her song." She had not heard it since they sang it for the grandmother the evening they had composed it. It astonished her to find that Silvio knew anything about it. How was she to know that Rico had been singing that song time after time, before he knew any others?

She gladly consented to sing it with Rico. To her great surprise Silvio began singing with them. To be sure, he did not know the meaning of a word he was saying, but he remembered the sounds from having heard them so often. He gave the words such a funny pronunciation that Stineli had to laugh. Silvio laughed because she laughed; then Rico could not help laughing, and so the song waited. They began again time after time, only to stop as before, and when Mrs. Menotti returned, she found them all still laughing and trying to sing.

She had been making a strong effort to adjust herself to the new order of things which the eventful morning had brought about. She crossed the garden hastily and came in where the children were. The laughter hushed as she sank exhausted into a chair, and they gazed at her in astonishment.

"Rico," she said, as soon as she had gathered a little composure, "I have just found out from the pastor that this home—the house, garden, farm, and everything—is yours. It is your inheritance from your father and belongs to you. Your name is recorded in the baptismal record of the church; you are the son of Enrico Trevillo, who was my husband's most intimate friend."

Stineli had almost from the first grasped the meaning of it all, and it gave her an unspeakable happiness. Her face was radiant, and Mrs. Menotti thought, "How beautiful the girl looks!"

Rico sat staring at the mother, speechless and bewildered. Silvio shouted, "All of a sudden the house belongs to Rico; where shall he sleep?"

"Where, Silvio?" repeated the mother. "In all the rooms, if he chooses. He can turn us out on the street at once if he likes."

"Then I should certainly go out on the street with you," said Rico.

"Oh, you good Rico! We will gladly stay if it will give you pleasure. I was thinking on the way home of how we could arrange it if you should wish to have us here. I could buy a half interest in the place, and then one half would belong to you and one half to Silvio."

"Then I will give my half to Stineli," declared Silvio.

"And I my half too," said Rico.

"Hurrah! now everything belongs to Stineli," shouted Silvio, gleefully. "The garden, the house, and everything in it—the chairs, the table, the violin, and you and I too are hers. Now let's sing again!"

Rico, in the meantime, had been thinking, and now hesitatingly asked, "How can it be that Silvio's father's house belongs to me, even if he was my father's best friend?"

This reminded Mrs. Menotti that as yet Rico knew none of the circumstances leading up to her discovery, so she began from the beginning and related the events in the proper order. When she finished, there was a grand jubilee among the children, because they realized that there was nothing to hinder Rico's coming to live with them immediately.

After the commotion had somewhat subsided, Rico said to Mrs. Menotti: "You must let nothing here be changed because this good fortune has come to me. I will simply come and live with you, and we shall all be at home, and you can be our mother."

"O Rico, to think it should be you of all people!" exclaimed Mrs. Menotti. "How well Stineli has advised us to let our troubles be made right, and how soon the answer came! I gladly give the property over to you, and I gladly remain here, too. I will be a true mother to you, Rico, for I have long loved you as an own son. You and Stineli must call me mother after this. We shall be the happiest family in all Peschiera."

"Now we must finish our song," burst out Silvio, who felt so happy that his feelings needed an outlet. Rico and Stineli were no less jubilant, and they sang merrily.

Rico was about to put up his violin, when Stineli said, "I should like to stop with a different song, Rico; can you guess which one?"

"Yes, I can." Then they sang in gratitude to God and in sweet memory of the dear old grandmother who taught it to them:

It is needless to say that Rico did not go to Riva that day. The situation was immediately explained to the hotel people, so that they could hire a substitute to play for the dance. How glad Rico was to be excused they could scarcely imagine.

The landlady received the information with the greatest astonishment. She hastily called her husband and told him the news. Later she congratulated Rico and said to him that she heartily wished for God's blessing upon his home. Not in the least did she begrudge him his good fortune. She had really grown very fond of him, and her pleasure was genuine. For some time the people of the hotel Three Crosses had been making Rico liberal offers to come to live with them, and she was relieved that now this could not happen. Her husband was glad for Rico, because he had known the father well; he wondered now that he had never noticed the striking resemblance between father and son.

Rico left word to have his belongings sent over to his house the next day, and then bade them a friendly farewell.

"We want you to give us your orders for all the entertaining you may do in the future," the landlady said, as he was about to leave. Rico thanked them in his usual quiet fashion and departed.

Before night nearly all Peschiera had heard of Rico's good fortune. He was a favorite in town, and the news caused much rejoicing.

Mrs. Menotti spared no pains to make Rico comfortable in his new home. The large front room upstairs was prepared for his special use. After everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, she went to gather some flowers as a finishing touch, and she had just placed them on the table when she heard Rico coming.

"Mrs. Menotti has your room ready, and she is upstairs," said Stineli. "Won't you go up to see it now?"

Rico expected to see a pleasant room, but he was not prepared to find the artistic effect which held him spellbound as he reached the threshold. Mrs. Menotti understood his nature so well that she knew what he would like, and she had arranged every detail herself. She met him at the door, and taking his hand, led him to the windows overlooking the lake. Rico wished to express his gratitude, but he could only murmur, "I am so glad to be at home."

In the sitting room downstairs, where the doors opened so pleasantly into the garden, the family, after Rico had come to stay, spent the most delightful evenings imaginable. Ten o'clock no longer brought sadness to the happy circle, and the months slipped by quite unheeded.

Rico was now supposed to manage his business, and he usually spent the days in the field and garden with his foreman. The first day they were out together the foreman thought, "I know more than my master," but that evening, when the soul-inspiring strains of the violin and voice came floating out to him across the garden, he thought, "My master does know more than I"; and thereafter he had a profound respect for Rico.

CHAPTER XXI

One day, about a year later, a message came from Bergamo, saying that some one was there who was to take Stineli back with him. There was no way out of it now, so the preparations for the journey began. Silvio cried and cried because his Stineli was going away.

"You must be sure to come back," said Mrs. Menotti. "Promise your father anything he wants if he will only let you come."

Rico said scarcely a word when Stineli went, but it seemed to him that she took all the sunshine in the world away with her. The clouds remained from November to the following Easter. The days had dragged along in monotonous fashion, with the zest of life completely gone.

Now it was Easter Sunday. The festivities of the day were over, the garden was one mass of bloom, and the fields gave promise of a bountiful harvest. It ought to have made everybody happy, yet here was Rico, sitting with Silvio in the midst of all this luxury and beauty, playing the most melancholy tunes he could think of. To be sure they suited Rico's mood, but they depressed Silvio and made him extremely fretful. Suddenly they heard, "Rico, haven't you a more cheerful welcome?"

Silvio screamed for joy. Rico threw the violin on the bed and rushed out. Mrs. Menotti came in from an adjoining room to see what had happened. There on the threshold stood Stineli. The sunshine was back again. She had not had the slightest notion of the hearty welcome that awaited her return. In fact, the others had not realized how necessary she was to their happiness until she was gone. They gathered about Silvio's bed as usual, and they asked questions and answered them and rejoiced that the days of separation were over.

A few years later something came about so naturally that it seemed as if it could not have been otherwise. One lovely day in May—as fine a day as Peschiera had ever seen—a long wedding procession moved from the church to the Golden Sun. The tall, handsome Rico was at the head, and by his side, with a wreath of roses on her fair brow, was the beautiful Stineli. Next came Silvio, in a softly upholstered cart drawn by two Peschiera boys. Next in line was the mother, in her rustling festive attire, looking somewhat pale and tired. The flower girls who came next were almost hidden in the roses they carried; following them came the guests, and it seemed from their number that all Peschiera must have turned out to do honor to the young bride and bridegroom.

The pride of the landlady of the Golden Sun, when she saw the procession coming, can be better imagined than described. Ever after, when anybody told about a wedding, she would say scornfully, "That is nothing compared to Rico's wedding at the Golden Sun."

The loyal Peschierans rejoiced that Rico was to make his home among them. The sunshine never again left him, and the home nestled in the beautiful garden was always a happy one. Stineli never let the Lord's Prayer be forgotten, and the grandmother's song could be heard every Sunday night.

WISELI FINDS HER PLACE

CHAPTER I

Directly opposite the city of Bern lies a small village beautifully situated on a hill. I cannot tell you what it is called, but I will describe it to you so that you may know it if you are ever there. On the summit of the hill there is but one house; it is surrounded by a flower garden, which meets on each side of the house the stretch of lawn at the front. This residence is called The Hill, and is the home of Colonel Ritter. A short distance down the hill, on a level stretch of ground, stands the church, with the parsonage beside it. This is where Mrs. Ritter spent her happy girlhood as the pastor's daughter. Still farther down, amid a group of houses, is the schoolhouse. On the left of these, all by itself, stands an attractive little house with a garden. In the front lawn are placed some flower beds containing roses, carnations, and mignonette. The asparagus beds at the sides of the house are screened from the front by a low raspberry hedge. The whole place presents a well-kept appearance. The road goes on down the hill to the main road that follows along the Aar River to the open country.

This long, sloping hill provided excellent coasting during the winter. The distance from the top of the hill to the Aar road below made a continuous coast of about ten minutes' duration. This incomparable sledge course gave to the children of the village the greatest pleasure of the year. No sooner was school dismissed than they ran for their sleds and hurried up the hill. The hours passed like minutes, so that six o'clock, the time when they were expected at home, came much too soon. The closing scene on the hill was usually an interesting one, for they always wanted to go down once more before they broke up for the night, and then once again, and after that just one single time more, so that it might be inferred from their excited haste that their lives depended upon making as many trips as possible.

They were usually governed by a wise rule that compelled them all to ride down and return in the same order, so as to avoid the possibility of collision and confusion; but the rule was occasionally disregarded, when the final excitement swayed them. This happened to be the case on a bright January night, when the intense cold made the snow crackle as it was crunched under the feet of the children, who came panting up the hill, drawing their sleds after them, their faces glowing from their exertions. The boys were shouting, "Once more! once more!" as they turned their sleds and fell into line.

Now it happened that three of the boys claimed the same place in the file, and not one was willing to go behind the others. During the dispute two of them crowded the big boy Chappi to one side into the snow, where his heavy sled sank into the drift. This made him angry, for it gave the others the opportunity to get ahead of him. In glancing back he noticed a little girl standing near, watching him; she had wrapped her hands in her apron to keep them warm, but she was shivering in her thin dress.

"Can't you get out of the way, you ragged thing?" he cried angrily. "What business have you here anyway, since you have no sled? I'll teach you how to get away."

He kicked a cloud of snow at her and was just ready to repeat it when some one behind him gave him a fierce blow. In great rage he doubled up his fist and turned savagely to attack his unknown foe.

It was Otto Ritter, who had just placed his sled in line and who now stood looking calmly at Chappi's clenched fist and raised arm. "Strike if you dare," was all he said.

Otto was a tall, slender boy, not nearly so stout as Chappi, but he had already proved, in previous encounters, that he possessed a skill in handling himself against which Chappi's weight counted for little. Chappi was too wise to strike, but he shook his fist in the air and snarled, "Clear out! I don't care to have anything to do with you."

"But I have something to do with you," retorted Otto. "What business have you to drive Wiseli into the drift and then pelt her with snow besides? You are a coward to attack a defenseless child."

Otto disdainfully turned his back upon Chappi and went toward the girl, who was standing knee-deep in the snowdrift. "Come out of the snow, Wiseli," he said gently. "Is it true that you have no sled?"

"I was only looking at the rest," she answered timidly.

"Take mine and go down once," said Otto. "Hurry, for they are going to start in a minute."

Wiseli glanced quickly at Chappi, afraid that he would interfere with her going, but the boy seemed to have forgotten all about her. Otto helped her to seat herself on the sled, and the next minute she was going down the hill behind the others.

Wiseli had watched them for ten or fifteen minutes, and had secretly wished that she might be allowed to sit on one of the large sleds used to carry several at a time, but to go down alone was more than she had even hoped for; besides, this was the prettiest sled of all. It had a lion's head for the front decoration, and was finished with steel runners and made of light material so that it beat all the others in a race.

It seemed to Otto but a moment before the party returned, so he shouted, "Stay in line, Wiseli, and go down once more."

Wiseli immediately turned her sled and gladly led the line down the hill. She murmured timid thanks to Otto when she returned with the sled, but the happy, flushed face would have satisfied him even if she had said nothing. She heard Otto calling his sister as she started homeward through the panting crowd.

"Here I am!" and a plump, rosy-cheeked little girl came to him with her sled. Otto took his sister's warm little hand in his and they hastened home. They had spent much more than the allotted time to-night, but they had enjoyed themselves too much to entertain any regrets whatever.

CHAPTER II

"Out of your shoes and into your slippers!" she commanded. She put the light down, and kneeling before Otto she unfastened his shoes and put the dry slippers on his feet. In the meantime she was urging the little sister to begin removing her wet shoes, but Miezi stood listening intently to something she thought she heard from the living room.

"Well," said Trina, "are you going to wait until next summer? Your shoes will be dry before then."

"Hush!" warned Miezi with upraised hand; "I heard something. Who is in the other room, Trina?"

"Only people with dry shoes are going in there," said Trina, still kneeling before Otto.

Just then Miezi gave a startled exclamation. "There, I heard it again! It is Uncle Max's laugh, I am sure."

"What!" exclaimed Otto, and both children rushed for the living room door. "Let me go in first, Otto; I heard him first!" cried Miezi, endeavoring to push herself ahead of him; but Trina picked her up in her arms and carried her to the hall seat, where the old servant had a hard time trying to get the wet shoes from the impatient feet. The moment the girl was released she bounded into the living room and into Uncle Max's arms, for it was really he, sitting in the large armchair, looking as happy and prosperous as ever.

The children quite worshiped Uncle Max. He was their especial friend, from whom they had no secrets. His travels kept him away much of the time, and they seldom saw him more than once a year, but this seemed to make his visits the more appreciated, especially as he always brought them remembrances from the remotest parts of the world. Each time he came seemed a holiday to the children.

To-night they were hurried to the table, where a steaming supper awaited them. The children's excitement over the uncle's coming abated somewhat before this enjoyment, for coasting always brought sharpened appetites. Miezi was industriously engaged with her soup when her father said: "I think my little girl has forgotten her papa to-night. I missed my usual kiss and handshake."

Miezi instantly let her spoon drop and pushed her chair back to run to the neglected parent, but he stopped her with, "No, no, you need not trouble now."

"I didn't mean to forget you, papa," she said.

"We will make up for it after supper, Miezchen," said the father. "What did we christen the child, anyway?" he continued. "Wasn't it Maria?"

"I was there when she was baptized," said Max, "but I cannot remember. It surely was not Miezchen."

"Of course you were there," asserted his sister. "You were the child's godfather, and we called her Marie. It was papa himself who first called her Miezchen, and Otto made it still worse."

"No, mamma, surely not worse," interposed Otto. "You see, Uncle Max, it is like this: if she is a good little girl I call her Miezchen; this she is so seldom, however, that I usually call her Miezi. When she is angry and looks like a little ruffled hen, I call her Miez."

"And when Otto is angry, what does he look like?" inquired Uncle Max, addressing Miezi.

Before she could think of a comparison, Otto answered, "Like a man!"

They all laughed so heartily that Miezi stirred her soup violently in her confusion.

Uncle Max tactfully changed the subject: "It has been over a year since I have seen you children, and I wish you would tell me what you have been doing while I have been away."

Naturally the latest news was related first, and, in their eagerness to have Uncle Max know everything, both children wished to speak at once. Among other things they told of the fun they had in school, and that led Otto to tell about his experience with Chappi and Wiseli; how she had been driven into the snowdrift and rudely treated, and how, though she had no sled, she finally had had two rides on his.

"That was right, Otto," said his father; "always take the part of the weak and the oppressed, and honor the meaning of your name. Who is this little girl you speak of?"

"I doubt if you know her," answered Mrs. Ritter, "but Max knew the mother very well. You remember the frail linen weaver that lived near us? She was his daughter and only child, and she used to come often to the parsonage. She was a pretty girl with large brown eyes, and she could sing beautifully. Do you remember whom I mean?"

Just at this moment Trina brought in a message: "Joiner Andreas begs permission to speak with Mrs. Ritter, if it will not disturb her."

Quite a commotion followed this announcement. Mrs. Ritter dropped the spoon with which she was serving, and saying hastily, "Excuse me, please," left the room.

Otto and Miezi immediately pushed back their chairs to go also, but Uncle Max held Miezi fast. Otto stumbled over something in his haste, and Miezi struggled hard to free herself. "Do let me go, Uncle Max! Let me go!" she cried.

"Why do you want to go, Miezchen?"

"To see Joiner Andreas. Let me go. Help me, papa."

"Tell me why you want to see Joiner Andreas, and I will let you go."

"My sheep has but two legs left and no tail, and only Joiner Andreas knows how to fix it. Now let me go."

Miezi's papa and Uncle Max laughed as she ran from the room.

"Who is this man that has the whole household at his command?" inquired Uncle Max.

"You ought to know better than I," answered Colonel Ritter. "Very likely he is an old playmate of yours. I am sure you would enjoy knowing him. Your sister makes us all love him. He is really the corner stone of this household, without whom things generally would go to rack and ruin. It doesn't matter what happens, for 'Joiner Andreas will fix it.' In fact he is helper, adviser, comforter, and friend, all in one."

"You may laugh," said Mrs. Ritter, who returned just then, "but I know that Joiner Andreas is a comfort."

"So do I," said the husband, playfully.

"So do I," echoed Miezi, as she seated herself at the table.

"So do I," added Otto, who was rubbing the knuckles he had bruised in his hasty exit.

"Then we are all agreed," said the mother. "Now I want you children to go to bed."

"To which we are not all agreed," said Otto, teasingly.

However, Trina came and they were obliged to go. The mother followed after a time, as was her custom, to hear the children's evening prayer and receive their last embrace for the night. This often required some time, for they were eager to tell her many things, and detained her for their own pleasure. To-night she remained until they were quiet and then returned to the gentlemen in the sitting room.

"At last," said Colonel Ritter, apparently as relieved as if he had just conquered an enemy. "You see, Max, my wife's time belongs first of all to Joiner Andreas, and then to the children; if there is any left, it belongs to me."

"Oh, it's not quite so bad as that!" corrected Mrs. Ritter. "You like Andreas just as well as the rest of us do, even though you won't admit it. That reminds me, he told me that he had received the money from his yearly profit and wanted your advice about investing it."

"Yes, it is a fact," said the colonel, "that I never saw a more trustworthy or energetic man than he. I would trust him with all I have. He is by far the most reliable and wide-awake man in our parish."

"Now you know what he thinks of him, Max," said Mrs. Ritter, laughing.

"Yes, to be sure," said the brother, "but you have said so much about this man that I am curious to see him. Did I ever know him?"

"Why, Max! to think of your asking!" his sister admonished him. "You used to go to school together and you knew him well. Don't you remember the two brothers who were in your class, the older one such a good-for-nothing boy? Not that he was stupid, but he didn't care to study, so the younger one was in the same class. The older one's name was George, and he was rather striking in appearance because of his heavy black hair. Whenever he saw us he would pelt us with stones or apples, and he invariably called us 'aristocrat-breed.'"

Uncle Max laughed. "Yes, I should say I do remember him distinctly," he said. "That word I shall never forget—'aristocrat-breed.' I should like to know how he got hold of it. I remember very well what a tyrant he was. I interfered once when I saw him unmercifully pommeling a much smaller boy, and he took his vengeance on me by calling me 'aristocrat-breed' at least a dozen times. Now, of a sudden, I remember the other one too. Can it be that little Andreas with the violets has become your hero? Now I comprehend the intimacy, Marie."

"The violets!" broke in Colonel Ritter. "I have heard nothing about the violets."

"Why, I see that scene before me as if it were but yesterday," continued Max, "and I am going to tell you about it, Otto. You have no doubt heard Marie tell about the teacher we had in those days, who believed that the bad should be whipped out of children and the good whipped into them. Consequently he was much of the time engaged in punishing us for one or both purposes. At one time he was administering this treatment to the little Andreas, and he struck the boy such a heavy blow across the back that he screamed outright. Well, my little sister, who had just begun to go to school, and who didn't understand the teacher's well-meant methods, immediately rose from her seat and marched down the aisle to the door.

"The teacher stopped to see what had happened, holding his rod poised in the air long enough to ask, 'Where are you going?'

"Marie turned around and, with tears streaming down her face, answered loud enough for the whole school to hear, 'I am going home to tell my papa.'

"I shall never forget how the teacher left the astonished Andreas and rushed upon Marie. 'Just wait and I'll teach you,' he threatened. He roughly took her by the arm and forced her back to her seat, muttering, 'I'll teach you!' That ended the scene, however, for he sent Andreas to his seat without further punishment, and nothing more was said to Marie.

"Andreas never forgot this kind act in his behalf, and he always brought Marie a bunch of violets when he came to school; I used to notice how they perfumed the schoolroom. Occasionally there would be a cluster of strawberries or something else equally appropriate. How the friendship has extended to the present state of affairs I shall have to let my sister explain."

"My dear wife, I am eager to have this brought up to date," remarked the colonel.

Mrs. Ritter laughed with the others and began: "The strawberries and violets were given as Max said, but you have forgotten how soon Andreas left school after I entered. He went to the city to learn the joiner's trade. I didn't lose track of him, however, for he often came home. When Otto and I were married and bought this place, he came to consult us about his own purchase of some property. The owner of the place wanted cash, and Andreas, who had lost his parents, hadn't the money. Otto lent him the sum he needed and has never regretted it."

"I should say not," broke in the colonel. "He paid for that long ago, and since that time has laid by a good sum of his own. He brings his money to me, and I invest it for him. His interest is adding to his capital, and he could now afford to build a much better house and live with more comforts. It is a shame that he is all alone in the world."

"Hasn't he a wife? And where is George?" asked Max.

"Andreas lives all alone," answered the sister. "I think his history is too sad for him ever to take a wife. George led a wild life around here until Andreas refused to help him out of any more scrapes, and now he has disappeared, for he couldn't pay his debts. People were relieved to have him out of the neighborhood, but everybody respects Andreas."

"What do you mean by his sad experience, Marie?" inquired Max.

"I should like to hear about that, too," said the husband.

"Why, Otto!" said Mrs. Ritter, "I have told you about it at least a dozen times."

"Is that so? It must please me," answered the husband, laughing.

"Can you recall, Max, the girl whom we were speaking of at the table to-night when Andreas came? We could hear her father's loom from our garden, they lived so near us. I told you the girl was very pretty. She had a charming manner and her name was Aloise."

"Never in my life have I known anybody by that name," asserted Max.

"I know why you say so," corrected his sister. "We never called her that, and I am sure that you never did. We called her Wisi, much to our dear mother's disgust. You often went over to get her when we wanted to have some music, because she could sing so well."

"Oh, yes, I remember Wisi," said Max, "and I used to like the girl, too; but I don't believe that I ever knew of her being named anything else."

"I know that you used to know, Max," persisted Mrs. Ritter. "Mother so often deplored the fact that we would not use the pretty name Aloise, and she never liked what we did call her."

"What became of Wisi?" inquired Max.

"Well," continued Mrs. Ritter, "Wisi and I were much together, for we were in the same class and went from grade to grade at the same time. Andreas, through all those years, was her stanchest friend, and she willingly accepted his attentions, often finding his friendship of great advantage to herself.

"For one thing we were supposed to bring certain examples worked out on our slates when we came to school in the morning, but Wisi's slate was usually blank. She was always light-hearted and merry, and she would put her slate on her desk in a very unconcerned way and go out to play; when she returned, the slate was filled with neatly copied examples.

"Once it was brought before the school that some one had broken a windowpane, and again, that some one had shaken the teacher's fruit trees, and I remember that we all knew it was Wisi's fault; but Andreas took the blame upon himself and the punishment also. The rest of us accepted it as a matter of course, for we all liked Wisi and were used to having her escape.

"How it happened that the quietest, most earnest boy in school should care especially about the most mischievous girl used to puzzle us, and I often wondered if Wisi were not indifferent to Andreas's interest in her. I asked mamma about it one day, and she said, 'I am afraid that Aloise is somewhat vain, and that she may live to see the bad results of her carelessness.' After that I worried about her myself.

"Some time later we had Bible studies together, preparatory to our confirmation, and she took such an interest in them that we began to think she had given up her mischievous ways. She regularly came to sing with us Sunday evenings, and we liked to have her with us, for her cheerfulness infected us all. By this time she was a very pretty young woman, not rugged, but perfectly well; and she far surpassed the other girls of the neighborhood in grace, beauty, and accomplishments. Andreas was still at his trade, but he managed to come home nearly every Sunday. We could all see how much he cared for Wisi. He was the only one that ever called her Wiseli, and he always accented the name so softly that we thought it was very pretty.

"One Sunday night, when Wisi and I were not quite eighteen years of age, she came in radiantly happy and told us that she was soon to be married. The man to whom she was betrothed had but recently come to the village and was employed at the factory. I was so astonished and grieved over the news that I could say nothing. Mother, however, asked her to take some time to consider the matter thoroughly, because it was too important a step to take hurriedly. Mother told her that she was very young and that she must not forget that there was some one else who had loved her for years, of whose intentions she could have no doubt; then, too, her father needed her, and she ought to help him a few years more.

"Wisi cried because mother talked so earnestly, but she said that her father had given his consent and it was all arranged that they were to be married in two weeks. 'Then,' said mother, 'we must make the best of it and try to be happy. I will play our favorite melody and we will sing the words.