"But will that be allowed?"

"Yes,--I have already obtained permission from the proper authorities."

"Oh, how thoughtful you have been!" cried his wife with emotion. "With all that burden to bear so silently, and now you console me instead of my comforting you! How did such a poor creature as I ever come to have such a husband?"

She pressed a kiss upon his withered hand. The footsteps of the school-children were heard in the hall. Herr Leonhardt arose and went to the door.

"Wait I let me lead you," said Brigitta.

"Oh, you need not," he said smiling. "I have been preparing myself for blindness for a long time, and I have practised walking about with closed eyes, that I might not be so helpless when the time came. And so now I can find my way very well." He had reached the door, and went out. "Good-morning, children!" he cried, and felt his way along the wall to the school-room, followed by his anxious wife. He stumbled a little upon the threshold. "Never mind," he said to Brigitta, who would have supported him. "I need more practice, but it will be better soon."

He found his desk, seated himself there, and waited until the children had all taken their places.

"Are you all here?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Well, then, sit down,--we cannot have any school to-day. My dear children, I must take leave of you. I cannot teach you any more. G.o.d has taken from me my eyesight. I cannot see you nor your lessons, and therefore I can no longer be your schoolmaster. Your parents will consider my blindness a punishment from G.o.d for my conduct, but I tell you, if the trials G.o.d sends us are rightly borne they are not punishments, but benefits. Remember this all your lives long. There will come dark hours in every one of your lives, if you live to grow up, when you will understand what your old master meant. And now come and give me your hands, one after the other. So,--I thank you for your childlike tenderness and affection, and I forgive from the bottom of my heart those few who have ever given me any trouble. My son will soon be here in my place; promise me to obey him, and to make his duty easier for him by diligence and obedience. Farewell, my dear children. G.o.d bless and prosper you!"

He held out his hands, and the children, sobbing and crying, thronged around him to clasp and kiss them.

"Who is this?" the old man asked of each one, and then, as the names were told him, he shook the little hands.

"Do not cry, dear children, we are not bidding farewell for life. You will often pa.s.s by the school-house on Sunday and shake hands with your old master as he sits on his bench before the door. And then I can guess by the voice who it is, and can feel how much you have grown, and you can tell me what you have been learning during the week. And those who have studied the best shall have some nuts, or one of my loveliest flowers, or some other little gift. Won't that be delightful?"

The children were consoled by this prospect, and hastened home to tell the important news to their parents.

The old man stood alone with his wife in the deserted school-room.

"Come, dear wife, we will send a message to Walter." He laid his hands once more upon his desk, and tears fell from his eyes. "It is strange,"

he said, "how much it costs us to leave a spot where we have laboured so long, even although our work has been hard and ill rewarded. Our home is wherever we have been used to the consciousness of duties fulfilled, and when we must leave it, it is as if we were going among strangers!"

He put his arm in Brigitta's, and, with heard bent, crossed the threshold which separated him from the humble scene of the daily labour of his life. For the first time, he looked, to his wife's anxious eyes, like a broken-down old man.

"I must leave you alone for an hour," she said, when she had seated him in the dwelling-room on the bench by the stove. "I must prepare the dinner."

"Do so, mother; man must eat, whether he be merry or sorrowful, eh? And we are not really sorrowful, are we?" And he forced a smile and patted her shoulder.

"No, dear Bernhard, we are not!" said his wife, struggling to repress a fresh burst of tears.

"Send a messenger to town to Walter as soon as possible," said Herr Leonhardt.

"Indeed I will. I cannot rest until my boy is with us. And I will send for the doctor, too!"

"Do not send for the doctor; he can do nothing more for me."

"But it will be a comfort to me to see him,--do let me send," said Brigitta. And she left the room.

The old man sat there, calm and still. "And now I must begin my new daily task,--the laborious task of idleness!" he thought, as he folded his hands and gazed into the night that had closed around him for this life.

He sat thus for some time, when the cuckoo began to announce the hour of nine, but the last "cuckoo" stuck in the bird's throat, and he stood still at his open door. The clock had run down. For the first time in many years, Herr Leonhardt had neglected to wind it up. He arose, groped his way towards it, felt for the weights, and carefully drew them up. The cuckoo took breath again, finished his song, and slammed to his door. "I will not forget you again, little comrade," said he, "you, who have chirped on through such merry and sorry times. How often now shall I long for you to tell me when the long, weary hours end!"

Thus said the old man to himself, and again slipped back to his place.

"There is something done," he said as he sat down. Then minute after minute pa.s.sed by, his head sank upon his breast, the darkness made him sleepy, and for awhile even his thoughts faded and were at rest.

His wife looked in upon him several times, but withdrew softly, that his sleep might not be disturbed.

It was almost twelve o'clock.

Then something rustled into the room; the old man felt the air stirred by an approaching form, and he raised his head. The figure threw itself at his feet. He put out his hand and touched waves of silky hair.

"Father Leonhardt!"

"Oh, this is Fraulein Ernestine."

Ernestine looked at him, and observed with dismay that the pupils of his eyes did not contract with the light.

"Herr Leonhardt, what is the matter with your eyes?"

He smiled. "Their work is done."

"Good heavens! already? I thought they would last months at least."

"What matters a few months more or less?" said the old man quietly.

Ernestine looked amazed. Involuntarily she clasped her hands. "Is this possible? I tremble from head to foot at the mere sight of such a calamity, and you--you upon whom it has fallen--are so perfectly calm and composed. Tell me, oh, tell me, what gives you such superhuman strength?"

The old man turned to her his darkened eyes. "My faith, Fraulein Ernestine."

Ernestine's gaze fell. "It is well for you."

"Yes, it is well for me," repeated Herr Leonhardt.

A long pause ensued. At last the old man asked kindly, "How are you after that terrible yesterday?"

"Oh, Father Leonhardt, do not ask me how I am! Until this moment I thought myself very miserable, but your calamity teaches me to despise my own pain. In comparison with that, what is all the imaginary unhappiness that comes from being misunderstood? What matters it if people despise me for differing from them? What can their esteem give me or their contempt deprive me of? They cannot bestow upon me or take from me one ray of sunlight, one glimmer of the stars. The golden day shines upon my path, and I am young and able to labour. I see the beauty of the world, the universe is painted upon my organs of sight, my soul is bathed in light, and how can I give room to mortified pride or offended vanity, when I see a great enlightened soul peacefully resigned to endless night? No, Father Leonhardt, holy martyr that you are, I discard all my petty personal trials, and am grieved only for you." She bowed her head upon his hands, and sobbed pa.s.sionately.

"My daughter," said the old man, much moved, "you are not telling me the truth. The pain that you have suffered must be great indeed, for only a heart that knows what suffering is can feel so for others' woes.

Your heart must have been filled before to overflowing with these tears that you are now shedding for me."

"Oh, Father Leonhardt, blind though you are, you see clearly. I came to seek advice and comfort from your paternal heart, and you have comforted me even before I could tell you of my grief. Yes, there was a moment when I forgot myself, but it is past. Your n.o.ble example has made me strong again. Let it go. I can think and talk now only of yourself. I pray you take me for your daughter. You have treated me with a father's tenderness,--let me repay you as a child should.

Yesterday you perilled that venerable head to save me from the angry mob,--now let me shield you from the menacing phantoms of night and loneliness. Come, live in my house with your wife. I will be with you as much as I can. I will talk to you and read to you. I am so lonely, and,--I cannot tell why,--I begin to thirst so for love."

Herr Leonhardt clasped his hands. "Oh, what comfort and delight Heaven still sends me! Yes, although my eyes are blind, I can see the hidden beauty of the heart that you reveal to me. G.o.d bless you, my dear daughter, and grant you the light of His countenance, that you may one day recognize Him as your best friend and benefactor!" He paused, and then added almost timidly, "Forgive me,--I am falling into a tone that you do not accord with. Remember that in my youth I studied theology,--a little of the pulpit still sticks to me. Do not think that I arrogate the right or ability to instruct you. I, old and broken down as I am, am not the one to train that proud spirit. I will accept the crumbs of love that fall for me from your large heart, and gratefully pray for your happiness."

"Father Leonhardt, do not undervalue yourself. You must know how far above me you are. When I saw you in your simple greatness confront those rude men yesterday, I was filled, for the first time since my childhood, with a sentiment of adoration. You understand me, you make allowance for me, while every one else misunderstands and condemns me.

You stood by me in the hour of danger, and yet you never boast of your kindness. Oh, you are n.o.ble and true! Come to me,--let me find peace upon your paternal heart, let me give you a home and provide for your son's future."

"Thanks, thanks for all your offers, my dear child, but I cannot take advantage of your generosity, and, thank G.o.d, I do not stand in need of it. My son has already determined to give up the study of medicine and take my place here as schoolmaster. Thus, our future is provided for, we shall not have to leave the dear old school-house, and I can die where my whole life has been pa.s.sed."