"Your own living, Reginald!" interposed his mother; "surely you have enough of your own to live comfortably on even as a married man, and your prospects of succeeding to Harcourt Manor are, I grieve to say for one reason, almost certain. O Reginald, don't go and leave me so soon again!"

But the young man, usually so easily led, fatally so indeed, stood firm now, and only answered, "Mother, it must be, and if you knew all you would be the first to advise me to go. Mother, you will soon hear that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a man worthy of her—a noble Christian doctor of the name of Heinz; but don't think that that circumstance is the reason of my leaving home. Fool though I have been and still am, I was never fool enough to think I was worthy of gaining the love of a high-principled girl like Gertie Warden. But, mother, your unselfish, God-fearing life, and that of Gertie and Dr. Heinz, have led me to see my own character as I never saw it before, and to wish to put right what has been so long wrong, and which it seems to me I can do best if I were away from home. Ask me no more, mother dear; some day I will tell you all, but not now. Only, mother, I must tell you that the words of the Bible which you love so well and have so early taught to me have not been without their effect, at least in keeping my conscience awake. And, mother, don't cease to pray for me that I may be helped to do the right. Oh, do not, do not," he entreated, as his mother began to urge him to remain, "say that, mother; say rather, 'God bless you,' and let me go. Believe me, it is best for me to do so."

At these words Mrs. Gower ceased speaking. If, indeed, her loved son was striving to do the right thing, would she be the one to hold him back? Ah no! she would surrender her will and trust him in the hands of her faithful God. So with one glance upward for help and strength, she laid her hand on his head and said, "Go then, my son, in peace; and may God direct your way and help you to do the right thing, and may He watch between us when we are separate the one from the other."

Just as Reginald was leaving the room Miss Drechsler entered. She greeted Mrs. Gower cordially, remembering her in old times; and she recognized Reginald as the young man who had spoken to Frida the day after the concert, though then she had not heard his name.

As Reginald was saying good-bye, he heard his mother ask Miss Drechsler where her friend the young violinist was. "I thought you would have brought her to see me," she added. Her answer struck Reginald with dismay.

"Oh! she did not accompany me to London after all. A great friend of hers was ill, and she had to go to her instead. It was a great disappointment to me."

Reginald went to his room feeling as if in a dream. Then it might never come to pass, after all, that Frida's parentage would be found out; and Satan suggested the thought that therefore he need not disclose all he knew, but let things go on as they were.

He hugged the idea, for not yet had he got the victory over evil; at all events he thought he would still wait a bit, but he would certainly carry out his intention of leaving the country for a while at least; and two days after the time we write of, his mother sat in her own room with a full heart after having parted from her only son. Well for her that she knew the way to the mercy-seat, and could pour out her sorrow at the feet of One who has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE STORM.

"More things are wrought by prayer Than the world dreams of."

After Mrs. Willoughby's interview with Dr. Heinz of which we have written, her thoughts turned more than ever to the daughter she loved so well.

It seemed certain from what Dr. Heinz had said that there had been a child; and if so, even although, as she feared, her loved daughter were dead, the child might still be alive, and probably the father also. The difficulty now was to obtain the knowledge of their place of residence.

Mrs. Willoughby quite believed that if any news could be obtained of either mother or child, Mr. Willoughby's heart was so much softened that he would forgive and receive them thankfully. Once more advertisements were inserted in various papers, and letters written to friends abroad, imploring them to make every inquiry in their power.

More than once Dr. Heinz called to see his new-made friend; but as Mr. Willoughby had returned to Harcourt Manor, whither his wife was soon to follow him, he never met him; and as Dr. Heinz was leaving town to take a much-needed holiday in the west Highlands of Scotland, nothing more could be done for the present to obtain information regarding the lost ones. It thus happened that although Dr. Heinz was a frequent visitor at Miss Warden's, he never met Miss Drechsler; but he heard from Gertie that she had not been able to bring the young girl violinist with her.

It was to Mrs. Willoughby that Mrs. Gower went for sympathy and consolation at the time of her son's departure. Mrs. Willoughby heard of his sudden departure with surprise and deep sorrow for her friend's sake.

"Reginald gone off again so soon!" she said. "Oh, I am sorry for you, dear friend! And does he speak of remaining long away? Making his own living, you say? Has he not enough to live comfortably on in the meantime? And then, you know," and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, "his future prospects are very good, unless—"

But here Mrs. Gower interrupted her. "Dear friend, from my heart I can say, if only dear Hilda or any child of hers could be restored to you, there is no one would more truly rejoice than I would; and I believe Reginald would do so also." But even as she said these words a pang of fear crossed her mind as to Reginald's feeling on the subject; but the mother's belief in her child refused to see any evil in him, and she added, "I am sure he would. But in any case the day of his succession as heir-at-law to Harcourt Manor is, we trust, far off, and so perhaps it is best for him that he should make his way in life for himself. I have been able now to trust him in God's hands, who doeth all things well."

From that visit Mrs. Gower returned to her home comforted and strengthened. Alone she might be, yet, like her Saviour, "not alone, for the Father was with her." And ere many days had elapsed she was able to busy herself in making preparations for her return to her pleasant country home, which she had only left at Reginald's special request that for once they might spend the season together in London.

One thing only she regretted—that she would be for some weeks separated from her friend Mrs. Willoughby, who was not to return to Harcourt Manor for some weeks.

Ah! truly has it been said, "Man proposes, but God disposes." The very day that Mrs. Gower started for her home, Mrs. Willoughby received a telegram telling her that Mr. Willoughby was very ill at the Manor, and that the doctor begged she would come at once; and so it turned out that, unknown to each other, the friends were again near neighbours, and Mrs. Willoughby in her turn was to receive help and comfort from her friend Mrs. Gower.

Long hours of suspense and anxiety followed the gentle lady's arrival at her country home. It soon became evident that Mr. Willoughby's hours were numbered, but his intellect remained clear. His eyes often rested with great sadness on his wife, and as he thought of leaving her alone and desolate, his prayer was that he might hear something definite regarding the child ere he died. Could he but have obtained that boon, he would have felt that that knowledge had been granted to him as a pledge of God's forgiveness.

Not always does our all-wise God grant us signs even as an answer to our prayers. Still, He is a God who not only forgives as a king, royally, but also blesses us richly and fully to show the greatness of His forgiving power. And such a God He was to prove Himself in the case of Mr. Willoughby.

* * * * *

Whilst he lay on that bed of death, watched over and tended by loving friends, Reginald Gower was tossing on a stormy sea, a fair emblem of the conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, that was still raging within his breast. But that night, when the waves of the Atlantic were wellnigh overwhelming the vessel in which he sailed, when fear dwelt in every heart, when the captain trod the deck with an anxious gravity on his face, light broke on Reginald's heart. So his mother's prayers were answered at last. The Holy Spirit worked on his heart, and showed him as it were in a moment of time his selfishness and his sin; and from the lips of the self-indulgent young man arose the cry never uttered in vain, "God be merciful to me a sinner." And when the morning light dawned, and it was seen they were nearing in safety the harbour whither they were bound, Reginald Gower looked out on the sea, which was fast quieting down, and gave thanks that the conflict in his soul was ended, and that clear above the noise of the waters he heard the voice of Him who, while He tarried here below, had said, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, say these same words to his soul.

"Safe in port," rang out the captain's voice; and "Safe in port, through the merits of my Saviour," echoed through the soul of the young man.

"Now," he said to himself, "let house, lands, and fortune go. I will do the just, right thing, which long ago I should have done—write to Mrs. Willoughby, and tell all I know about the child found in the Black Forest."

At that resolution methinks a song of rejoicing was heard in heaven, sung by angel voices as they proclaimed the glad news that once more good had overcome evil—that the power of Christ had again conquered the power of darkness—that in another heart the Saviour of the world had seen of the travail of His soul and was satisfied.

* * * * *

In the meantime, the events we have written of were transpiring in Harcourt Manor. Mr. Willoughby still lay on a bed of sickness, from which the doctor said he would never rise, although a slight rally made it possible that life might yet be spared for a few days or even weeks.

He was wonderfully patient, grieving only for the sorrow experienced by his wife, and the sad thought that his own unforgiving spirit was in great part the reason why now she would be left desolate without a child to comfort her.

Daily Mrs. Gower visited her friend, and often watched with her by the bed of death.

Dr. Heinz, at Mrs. Willoughby's request, came to see Mr. Willoughby, and obtained from his lips a message of full forgiveness if either his daughter, her husband, or any child should be found after his death; and together they prayed that if it were God's will something might be heard of the lost ones ere Mr. Willoughby entered into rest. "'Nevertheless,'" added the dying man, "'not my will but thine be done.'"



CHAPTER XVII.

THE DISCOVERY.

"All was ended now—the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow."

One day shortly after Dr. Heinz's visit, Mrs. Gower came to Harcourt Manor accompanied by Miss Drechsler, who had arrived from London the night before to remain with her for a couple of days.

"You will not likely see Mrs. Willoughby," she said as they neared the manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst I go to see her, I would be so much obliged to you, as I am desirous of knowing how Mr. Willoughby is to-day. He seemed so low when I last saw him."

"Oh, certainly," answered Miss Drechsler. "Don't trouble about me; I can easily wait. And don't hurry, please; I am sure to get some book to while away the time."

They parted in the hall, Mrs. Gower turning off to the sick-room, while Miss Drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. The room was a very fine one, large and lofty. It had been little used for some weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and shutting out the summer sunshine.

At first Miss Drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room, coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were considered very fine. She looked attentively at some of them. Then her eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a start of astonishment Miss Drechsler uttered the word, "Frida! and with her curious necklace on, too. What does it mean?" she queried.

In a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. That, she felt sure, must be a picture of Frida's mother, and she must have been the missing child of Harcourt Manor.

She sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had made. What a secret she had to disclose! Oh, if Mrs. Gower would only come back quickly, that she might share it with her! Oh, if Frida had only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents as the child of their lost daughter!

At last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated. "Excuse me, dear Miss Drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting; but I found Mr. Willoughby much worse, and I must ask you kindly to allow me to remain here for a short time longer. Perhaps you would like to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and—"

But Miss Drechsler could no longer keep silence. "O dear friend, do not distress yourself about me! Listen to me for a moment. I have made such a discovery. I know all about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she is dead! She died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a few hours of London. She is my protege, my dearly-loved young violinist, Frida Heinz, the child I have told you of found in the Black Forest!"

"Is it possible?" replied Mrs. Gower. "What a discovery you have made! thank God for it. Can she be got at once, I wonder, ere the spirit of her grandfather passes away? Oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! The cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'Oh, if God has indeed forgiven me, as I fully believe He has, I pray He may allow me to know ere I go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'"

"A telegram must be sent at once to Stanford Hall, where she is now living," said Miss Drechsler; "and another to Miss Warden, asking her to send off Frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to Harcourt Manor."

And without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned Frida to London, and from thence to the manor-house.

The first sense of surprise having passed, Mrs. Gower's thoughts involuntarily turned to Reginald. How would he like this discovery? But again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. But now she must return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear the particulars of the story from the lips of Miss Drechsler herself.

It was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get Mrs. Willoughby to leave her husband's side even for a moment. The doctors had just told her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps not so long, and every moment was precious; but Mrs. Grower's words, spoken with calm deliberation, "Dear friend, you must see me in another room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their effect. And she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed Mrs. Gower into another room.

She listened as if in a dream to the story which Miss Drechsler told. Incident after incident proved that the child found in the Forest was indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her loved Hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast.

The necklace which Frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag the night that Wilhelm Hoerstel had discovered her in the Black Forest, all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the Manor; but it was not until Mrs. Willoughby heard the story of the "brown German Bible" that she sobbed out the words, "Oh, thank God, thank God, she is the child of my darling Hilda. Now, dear friend, this discovery must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last prayer for me has been granted."

Mr. Willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. As regarded the death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "I shall see her soon;" then said, "I thank thee, O my Father, that Thou hast answered prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.—Give my fond love to the girl, wife, for I feel my eyes shall not see her. That is my punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit."

And if God could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our God is fully and for ever a promise-keeping God, and He has declared, "If any man confess his sins, He is faithful and just to forgive him, and to cleanse him from all iniquity." And so it came to pass that ere the spirit of Mr. Willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "Full forgiveness through Christ—what a God we have! Comfort your grandmother, my child, and keep near to Jesus in your life. God bless the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were homeless.—And now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace.—Farewell, loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me God's word of life, hast led my soul to Christ." One deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled, and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other.

* * * * *

"And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.—But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter."

"Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?"

"Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly.

"Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,—

"Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest."

And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and they did the deed."

Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted? Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'"

Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest.

"I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,—of how good God has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters."

In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand.

"Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You said he had gone there, did you not?"

Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me. But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some other subject."

She then read as if in a dream the following words:—

"DEAR FRIEND—if indeed I may still dare to address you thus—I write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with a fac-simile of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known. It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I would have gained strength to do this or not, had not God in His great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. That I believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER."

Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive.

Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was dead, and is alive again." The prayers—believing prayers—of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to Harcourt Manor—could she ever forgive him? That question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her God in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention God had restored her grandchild to her arms.

In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply.

And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent—nay, at her special request—that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a sight of her friends in the Black Forest.

Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest.

"O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small special remembrance—a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind."

"Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'"

It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears were in Frida's eyes—tears of gratitude—as she thought of the goodness of God in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before.

Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the Forest.

"Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?"

Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and Miss Drechsler introduced him to his protege.

"Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting ein Alter if this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest."

He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,—

"Lobe Herrn, He is good, very good, and answers prayer."

And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to God.

On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her.



CHAPTER XVIII.

OLD SCENES.

"God's world is steeped in beauty, God's world is bathed in light."

It was in the leafy month of June that Frida found herself once more treading the Forest paths. The smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining—

"Greenness shining, not a colour, But a tender, living light;"

and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a noble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams.

Memory was very busy at work as the girl—nay, woman now—trod those familiar scenes. Yonder was the very tree under which Wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth.

There in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. And as she drew nearer the hut of the Hoerstels, she recognized many a spot where she and Hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world.

As she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to God, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. The language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in Scottish churches:—

"When all Thy mercies, O my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise."

Words cannot depict the joy of Elsie and Wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. They had already heard of her having found her English relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well.

Many were the questions asked on both sides. Frida, on her part, had to describe Harcourt Manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, Dr. Heinz, and his beautiful bride. She told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of Harcourt Manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it.

When the many useful presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby were displayed, the gratitude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. Hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from Leipsic for a short holiday.

It was with difficulty that Frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the Dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. It was late ere she reached Dringenstadt, and there, seated by Miss Drechsler, related to her the doings of the day.

To Pastor Langen was entrusted a sum of money to be given to the Hoerstels, and also so much to be spent every Christmas amongst the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners in the Dorf. The two Bibles Frida had herself given to the Hoerstels, who had been delighted with them.

When, soon after that day, Dr. Heinz and his bride, accompanied by Frida, visited the Forest, they received a hearty welcome. Many of the wood-cutters recognized the resemblance Dr. Heinz bore to his brother who had died in the cottage in the Forest.

Many a story did Dr. Heinz hear of the woodland child and her brown book.

The marriage trip over, the Heinzes, accompanied by Frida, returned to their homes—they to carry on their work of love in the dark places of the great metropolis, taking with them not only comforts for the body, but conveying to them the great and only treasures of the human mind, the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. And to many and many a sin-sick, weary soul the words of Holy Scripture spoken by the lips of those two faithful ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ brought peace and rest and comfort. And Frida, on her part, found plenty of work to do for the Master in the cottages near Harcourt Manor, in which her grandmother helped her largely.

Three years had passed since Frida had become an inmate of her grandmother's home, and they had gone for the winter to London in order to be near Frida's relations the Heinzes, and at Frida's request Ada Stanford, who was now much stronger, had come to pay her a visit. Many a talk the two friends had about the past, recalling with pleasure the places they had visited together and the people they had seen. The beauties of Baden-Baden and the sunny Riviera were often dwelt on, and together they loved to review God's wonderful love as regarded them both. They spoke also of their visit to the dying woman in the Glen, whom Frida had long before found out to have been a faithful nurse to her mother, and for whose little grand-daughter Mrs. Willoughby had provided since hearing from Frida of the old woman's death.

Then one day the girls spoke of a musical party which was to take place in Mrs. Willoughby's house that day, and in the arranging for which Ada and Frida had busied themselves even as they had done years before in Baden-Baden for the party at which Frida had played on the violin. A large party assembled that night, and Dr. Heinz and Frida played together; but the great musician of the night was a young German violinist who had begun to attract general attention in the London musical world. He was no other than Hans Hoerstel, the playmate of Frida's childhood.

Very cordial was the meeting between those two who had last seen each other in such different circumstances.

And Sir Richard Stanford, who was also present, felt he was well repaid for what he had spent on young Hoerstel's education by the result of it, and by the high moral character which the young man bore.

It was a happy night. Frida rejoiced in the musical success of the companion of her early years, and together they spoke of the days of the past, and of his parents, who had been as father and mother to her.

Long after the rest of the company had gone, Hans, by Mrs. Willoughby's invitation, remained on; and ere they parted they together gave thanks for all God's kindness towards them.

All hearts were full of gratitude, for Mrs. Gower was there rejoicing in the news she had that day received from Reginald, that he was about to be married to a niece of Sir Richard Stanford's, whom he had met whilst visiting friends in New York; and she was one who would help in the work for Christ which he carried on in the neighbourhood of his farm. He was prospering as regarded worldly matters, and he hoped soon to take a run home and introduce his bride to his loved mother and his kind friend Mrs. Willoughby. He added, "I need hardly say that ere I asked Edith to marry me I told her the whole story of my sin in concealing what I knew of the birth of Frida Heinz; but she said, what God had evidently forgiven, it became none to refuse to do so likewise."

So after prayer was ended, it was from their hearts that all joined in singing the doxology,—

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!"

And with this scene we end the story of the child found in the Black Forest, and the way in which her brown German Bible was used there for the glory of God.

THE END.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.



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MARTIN RATTLER. An excellent story of adventure in the forests of Brazil.

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WORLD OF ICE, THE. A story of whaling in the Arctic regions.

YOUNG FUR TRADERS, THE. A tale of early life in the Hudson Bay Territories.

By W. H. G. KINGSTON.

"The best writer for boys who ever lived."

WITH AXE AND RIFLE.

CAPTAIN MUGFORD.

SNOW-SHOES AND CANOES.

HEIR OF KILFINNAN, THE.

BEN BURTON.

DICK CHEVELEY. A stirring tale of a plucky boy who "ran away to sea."

IN THE EASTERN SEAS. The scenes of this book are laid in the Malay Archipelago.

IN THE WILDS OF AFRICA. The adventures of a shipwrecked party on the coast of Africa.

IN THE WILDS OF FLORIDA. A bustling story of warfare between Red Men and Palefaces.

MY FIRST VOYAGE TO SOUTHERN SEAS. A tale of adventure at sea and in Cape Colony, Ceylon, etc.

OLD JACK. An old sailor's account of his many and varied adventures.

ON THE BANKS OF THE AMAZON. A boy's journal of adventures in the wilds of South America.

SAVED FROM THE SEA. The adventures of a young sailor and three shipwrecked companions.

SOUTH SEA WHALER, THE. A story of mutiny and shipwreck in the South Seas.

TWICE LOST. A story of shipwreck and travel in Australia.

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THE END