It gave the old man pleasure to have Mary read to him in her sweet and clear voice. During the latter part of his illness he desired to hear nothing else than the last words and prayer of Jesus. One night, after all the household had gone to bed, Mary was sitting beside her father. The moon was shining so brightly into the room that the light of the candle was scarcely seen.

"Mary," said the dying man, "read me once again that beautiful prayer of our Saviour."

Mary began to read. "Now," said the old man, "give me the book." Mary gave him the book, and carried the light nearer to him. "This will be the last prayer," said her father, "that I shall make for you," as he marked the passage with his finger, then in a trembling voice he uttered the following prayer: "O Father, I have not long to remain in this world. I am going—I dare hope it—I am going to Thee, my heavenly Father. Oh, preserve this my child from sin, for Thy Name's sake. While I have lived on the earth, I have endeavoured in Thy name to preserve her from it. But, O Lord, I am now going to Thee. I do not ask Thee to take her to Thyself, but only to preserve her from harm. Let Thy holy truth preserve her. Thy word is truth. Grant, O heavenly Father, that the child whom Thou hast given me may at last be admitted to the place where I hope to go. Through Jesus Christ my Saviour. Amen."

Mary repeated, as well as her sobs would allow her, her father's Amen. "Yes," continued the old man, "yes, my daughter, in the kingdom which Jesus had from the beginning of the world, we shall see Him, and we shall see each other." He again lay down on his pillow to rest a little. His hands continued to hold the New Testament, which he had bought with his first money saved from the purchase of food after he left Eichbourg.

"Dear daughter," he said, some minutes afterwards, "I am grateful for all the affection and tenderness which you have shown me since my illness commenced. Trust in your heavenly Father, Mary, and you will receive of Him your reward. Poor and forsaken as I am, I can give you nothing, when I leave you, but my blessing and this book. Live in the ways of righteousness, and this blessing will not be without effect. The blessing of a father with the confidence of the Lord is better for a virtuous child than the richest inheritance. This book, which I wish you to take in remembrance of your father, cost me, it is true, but a few shillings, but if it be faithfully read and its precepts put in practice, I shall have left you the richest treasure. If I had left you as many pieces of gold as the spring produces leaves and flowers, with all that money you could not buy anything so valuable as this book. It is the Word of God. Read it every day, no matter how much work presses upon you; read at least one passage. Preserve it and meditate upon it in your heart during the day."

About three o'clock the next morning James said, in a faint voice, "I feel very ill. Open the window a little." Mary opened it. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was brilliant with stars, and presented a magnificent sight.

"See how beautiful the sky is!" said the dying man. "What are the flowers of earth whose beauty I have so often admired compared with these stars, whose glory suffers no fading? It is there I am going. What joy! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

With these words James fell back upon his pillow, and passed peacefully away. Mary had never seen any one die before, and she thought her father had only fainted. In her fright she awoke all the family. They ran to her father's bed, and there she heard them say to each other that he was dead. Abandoning herself to her grief, she threw herself upon her father's body, embraced it, and wept passionately.

"Oh, my father, my good father," said she, "how shall I discharge all my obligations to you? Alas, I cannot now. I can only thank you for all the words, for all good advice I received from your dear lips, now sealed in death. Your hand, which is now cold and stiff, I kiss with gratitude, and remember that that hand has bestowed upon me many benefits, and has all my life laboured for my good. Oh, if I could at this moment follow you into the heavenly kingdom, how gladly would I do so. Oh, let me die the death of the righteous. My only consolation now is that I shall one day enter upon the happiness and everlasting life of heaven."

During this heart-rending scene the farmer's family had been much affected. At last they prevailed upon Mary to lie down and rest, hoping that sleep would ease her grief. During the following day nothing would induce her to leave her father's body. Before the coffin lid was nailed down, Mary took one more look at her father. "Alas," said she, "it is the last time that I shall ever look upon your dear face! How beautiful it was when you smiled, and it shone with the glory into which you were so shortly to enter. Farewell, farewell, my father," said she, sobbing aloud, "may your body rest peacefully in the earth now, while angels of God are, as I hope, bearing your soul to eternal rest."

When the funeral took place, Mary, dressed in mourning which one of the girls of the village had kindly given her, followed close to the body of her father. She was as pale as death, and every one pitied the poor girl who now was without a relative in the world. As Mary's father was a stranger at Erlenbrunn, they dug a grave for him in a corner of the cemetery beside the wall. Two large pine trees shaded the humble grave. The minister who had attended James during his illness spoke of James's patience and of the resignation with which he had borne all his misfortunes, and the good example he had set for those who knew him. With tender words he consoled Mary, who was overwhelmed with grief. In the name of her father, the minister thanked the farmer and his wife for all their kindness to Mary and her father. He begged of them to be father and mother to her who had no longer any parents.



CHAPTER XII.

CHANGES AT PINE FARM.

After her father's death, Mary was no longer the bright happy girl she had been before. Even her favourite flowers seemed to have lost all their beauty, and the pine trees near the farm looked as though they were clothed in mourning. From time to time she attended the church at Erlenbrunn; and when here she never failed to visit her father's grave. On every opportunity she went to this sacred spot to weep for her departed parent, and she never left the grave without having made fresh resolutions to ignore the pleasures of the world, and to live only to God. As time went on her grief gradually moderated, but she soon had new trials to undergo.

Great changes took place in Pine Farm. The good farmer had given the farm to his only son, an amiable, good-tempered young man, but unhappy in his choice of a wife, whom he had married a short time before. She was a handsome woman, and possessed of considerable means; but she was vain to a degree, and cared for nothing but money. Pride and greed had gradually imprinted on her features an expression of harshness so striking that, with all her beauty, her looks were repellent. She was violently opposed to religion, and was thus without any restraint on her conduct. By every means in her power she sought to make the lives of her husband's parents miserable. If she knew that anything would give them pleasure, she delighted in doing the contrary, and when she gave them the food which was their due, according to the contract they had made with their son, it was always with a bad grace, and in a grudging spirit.

The good old man and his wife lived the greater part of their time in a little back room, seldom appearing outside. As for their son, he led a miserable life; for his wife overwhelmed him with constant abuse, and was constantly reminding him of the money she had brought him. Being of a peaceable disposition, and averse to quarrelling and disputing, he bore his sufferings in silence. His wife would never quietly allow him to visit his parents, for fear, as she said, he would give them something secretly. In the evening, after he had finished his work, he used to try to find an opportunity to visit them, when he would complain to them of his hard lot.

"Well," said his father, "so it is. You suffered yourself to be dazzled by the thought of her gold, and to be fascinated by her good looks. I yielded too easily to your wishes, and thus we are punished. We should have taken the advice of old James, who was an experienced man and never approved of this match when it was talked of. I well remember every word he said on the subject, and I have thought of it many a time. Do you remember," said he to his wife, "our having said that ten thousand florins make a handsome sum. 'A handsome sum!' said James, 'no; for the flowers you see in your garden are a thousand times more beautiful. Perhaps you mean to say it is a large and heavy sum. I will acknowledge that. He must have good shoulders to bear it without being bowed down to the earth, and without becoming a poor wretch, unable to lift his head to heaven. Why then do you wish for so much money? You have never wanted anything; you have always had more than sufficient. Believe me, too much money produces pride. Rain is a useful and necessary thing, but when too much falls there is danger of it destroying the most healthy plants of the garden.'

"These were exactly the old friend's words we have lost," said the farmer, "and I think I still hear him. And you, my son, once said to him of your wife, 'She has a charming person, and is beautiful and fresh as a rose.' 'Flowers,' answered James, 'have not beauty only; they are good and pretty at the same time. They make so many rich presents. The bee sucks in pure wax and delicious honey. Without piety, a beautiful face is merely a rose upon paper, a miserable trifle without life or perfume. It produces neither wax nor honey.' Such were the reflections that James frankly made before us. We would not listen to him—now we know how to appreciate his advice. That which appeared then to us so great a happiness is now to us the height of misfortune. May God give us grace to bear our misfortunes with patience!" Thus the old couple and their son used to talk together.

Poor Mary had much to suffer also. The back room which she and her father had occupied was given up to the old couple, and, although there were two empty rooms in the farmhouse, the young farmer's wife, who disliked Mary, gave her the most miserable apartment in the house; beside which, she ill-treated her in every possible way, and loaded her with abuse and fault-finding from morning to night. According to her, Mary did not work enough and did not know how to do anything as it ought to be done. In short, she made it very plain to the poor orphan that she was despised and considered troublesome.

The old man and his wife were keenly conscious of the miserable life that Mary led, but they were not in a position to interfere. They had enough to do with their own griefs.

Mary thought often of going away from Pine Farm, but where to go was the question. After some consideration she asked the minister's advice. "My dear Mary," said the old minister, "it is impossible for you to think of remaining longer at Pine Farm. They expect you to do more than a strong man could accomplish. Still, I do not advise you to leave immediately. Although your father gave you an excellent education, and taught you all that it was necessary for a village housekeeper to know, my advice would be to remain where you are for the present; to work as faithfully as you can, and to wait patiently until the Lord delivers you from your present hard circumstances. I will endeavour to get you a place in an honest Christian family. Have confidence in God; pray constantly, bear with this trial, and God will arrange all." Mary thanked the good old minister and promised to follow his advice.

Mary's favourite place of meditation was her father's tomb, where she had planted a rose tree. "Alas," said she, "if I could remain here always, I would water you with my tears!" The rose tree was already green, and the buds began to open their purple cups. "My father was right," said Mary, "when he compared human life to the rose tree. It offers nothing but thorns; but wait a little and the season will come when it shall be decked anew in foliage and robed in the most beautiful flowers. For me, this is now the time of thorns; but God help me not to be cast down! I believe your word, best of fathers. Perhaps I may see in my life the truth of your favourite maxim—'Patience produces roses.'" Thus poor Mary consoled herself in her distress.

"Thou art, O Lord, my only trust, When friends are mingled with the dust, And all my loves are gone. When earth has nothing to bestow, And every flower is dead below, I look to Thee alone."



CHAPTER XIII.

AGAIN A WANDERER.

The months sped on, and now the anniversary of her father's birthday arrived. Until then it had always been to Mary a day of great joy, but this time, when the day dawned, she was bathed in tears. Previously she had had the pleasure and excitement of preparing something which she knew would please her father, but now, alas, this delightful occupation was rendered useless!

The country people round about their home used to beg flowers from her for the purpose of decorating the graves of their friends. It had always been a pleasure to Mary to give her flowers for this purpose, and she now determined to decorate her father's tomb in the same manner. Taking from a cupboard the beautiful basket which had been the first cause of all her unhappiness, she filled it with choice flowers of all colours, artistically interspersed with fresh green leaves, and carried it to Erlenbrunn before the hour of divine service, and laid it on her father's tomb, watering it at the same time with tears that could not be repressed.

"Oh, best and dearest of fathers," said she, "you have strewed with flowers the path of life for me. Let me at least ornament your grave with them."

Mary left the basket on the grave, and went back to the misery of Pine Farm. She had no fear that any one would dare to steal either the basket or the flowers. Many of the country people who saw her offering were moved to tears, and, blessing the old gardener's pious daughter, they prayed for her prosperity.

The next day the labourers at the farm were busy taking in the hay from a large meadow just beyond the forest. The farmer's wife had a large piece of fine linen spread out on the grass a few steps from the house, and in the evening this was found to have disappeared. Unfortunately the young farmer's wife had heard the story of Mary and the ring from her husband, to whom it had been told by his father and mother. Instantly then she connected Mary with the disappearance of the linen, and saw in the circumstance a means of venting her spite upon the girl whom she had always disliked.

When Mary was returning from her work in the evening with a rake on her shoulder and a pitcher in her hand, along with the other servants, this passionate woman came out of the kitchen and met her with a torrent of abuse, and ordered her to give up the linen immediately. At first Mary was too stunned to reply, but when she understood the charge, she answered meekly that it was impossible she could have taken the linen, as she had passed the whole day in the hay-field with the other servants; that a stranger might easily have taken advantage of a moment when there was no one in the kitchen to commit the theft. This conjecture turned out to be the true one, but the farmer's wife was not to be turned from her conviction.

"Thief," she cried coarsely, "do you think I am ignorant of the theft of the ring, and what difficulty you had to escape the executioner's sword? Begone as soon as possible. There is no room in my house for creatures like you."

"It is too late," said her husband, "to send Mary away now. Let her sup with us, as she has worked all day in the great heat. Let her but remain this one night."

"Not even one hour," cried his wife passionately; and her husband, seeing that advice would only irritate her more, remained silent.

Mary made no further attempt to defend herself against the unjust accusation. She immediately made her simple preparations for her departure, wrapping up all that she had in a clean napkin. When she had put the little bundle under her arm, thanked the servants of Pine Farm for their kindness to her and protested once more her innocence, she asked permission to take leave of her friends, the old farmer and his wife.

"You may do that," said the young farmer's wife, with a scornful smile; "indeed, if you wish to take with you these two old people, it will give me great pleasure. It is evident death does not mean to rid me of them for some time."

The good old people, who had heard the altercation, wept when Mary came to bid them good-bye. However, they consoled her as well as they could, and gave her a little money to assist her on her journey. "Go, good girl," said they to her, "and may God take care of you."

It was towards the close of the day when Mary set out with her little bundle under her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, following the narrow road to the woods. She wished before leaving the neighbourhood to visit her father's grave once more. When she came out of the forest the village clock struck seven, and before she arrived at the graveyard it was nearly dark; but she was not afraid, and went up to her father's grave, where she sat down and gave way to a burst of grief. The full moon was shining through the trees, illumining with a silver light the roses on the grave and the basket of flowers. The soft evening breeze murmured among the branches, making the rose trees planted on her father's grave tremble.

"Oh, my father," cried Mary, "would that you were still here, that I might pour my trouble into your ears! But yet I know that it is better that you are gone, and I thank the Lord that you did not live to witness this last affliction. You are now happy, and beyond the reach of grief. Oh, that I were with you! Alas, never have I been so much to be pitied as now. When the moon shone into the prison which confined me you were then alive; when I was driven from the home which I loved so much you were left me. I had in you a good father and protector and faithful friend. Now I have no one. Poor, forsaken, suspected of crime, I am alone in the world, a stranger, not knowing where to lay my head. The only little corner that remained to me on the earth I am driven from, and now I shall no longer have the consolation of coming here to weep by your grave!" At these words the tears rushed forth afresh.

"Alas," said she, "I dare not at this hour beg a lodging for the night. Indeed, if I tell why I was turned out of doors, no one perhaps will consent to receive me."

She looked around. Against the wall, near her father's tomb, was a gravestone, very old and covered with moss. As the inscription had been effaced by time, it was left there to be used as a seat. "I will sit down on this stone," said she, "and pass the night by my father's grave. It is perhaps the last time I shall ever be here. To-morrow at daybreak, if it be God's will, I shall continue my journey, going wherever His hand may direct me."



CHAPTER XIV.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Mary sat down on the stone near the wall shaded by the thick foliage of a tree which covered her with its dark branches. Here she poured out her soul in fervent prayer to God. Suddenly she heard a sweet voice calling her familiarly by her name, "Mary, Mary!"

The late hour of night and the solitude of the graveyard and her loneliness made Mary start with fear. Looking up she saw the beautiful face and figure of a woman, dressed in a long flowing robe. Frightened and trembling, Mary was about to fly.



"Dear Mary," said the lady, with tenderness in her voice, "do not be alarmed; I am not a spirit, but a human being like yourself. God has heard your fervent prayers, and I have come to help you. Look at me; is it possible you do not know me?"

The moon was shining brightly upon her face, and with an exclamation of surprise, Mary cried out, "Is it you, the Countess Amelia? Oh, how did you get here—here in so lonely a place at this hour of the night, so far from your home?"

The Countess raised Mary gently from the ground, pressed her to her heart, and kissed her tenderly.

"Dear Mary," said she, "we have done you great injustice. You have been ill rewarded for the pleasure which you gave me with the basket of flowers, but at last your innocence has been made known. Can you ever forgive my parents and me? We are ready to make amends as far as it lies in our power. Forgive us, dear Mary."

Mary was distressed at these words, and begged the Countess not to talk of forgiveness. "Considering the circumstances," she said, "you showed great indulgence towards me, and it never entered my mind to nourish the least resentment towards you. I had grateful thoughts of all your kindness, and my only sorrow was that you and your dear parents should regard me as ungrateful enough to be guilty of stealing your ring. My great desire was that you might one day be convinced of my innocence, and God has granted this desire. May His name be praised!"

The Countess pressed Mary to her heart, and bathed her face in tears. Afterwards she looked at James's grave and, clasping her hands, she cried out passionately, "Oh, noble man, whose body lies here, whom I learned to love in my tender youth, whose affectionate counsels I have often received, and whose fervent prayers I have so often listened to, why cannot I see your face to ask pardon for all the injustice done you? Oh, if we had only taken more precaution, if we had placed more confidence in an old servant who had always shown unimpeachable honesty and faithfulness, perhaps thou hadst still been living with us!"

"Believe me, good Countess," said Mary, "my father was far from feeling the least resentment towards you. He prayed for you daily, as he was accustomed to do when he lived at Eichbourg, and at the hour of his death he blessed you all.

"'Mary,' said he to me, a little before he died, 'I feel confident that those whom we once served will one day recognise your innocence, and recall you from exile. When that day comes, assure the Countess and Count and Amelia that my heart was full of respect and love and gratitude towards them till my last breath.' These, my dear Countess, were his last words."

The tears of the good Amelia flowed copiously. "Come, Mary," said she, "and sit down here with me on the stone. We are safe here in the sanctuary of the Lord. Let me tell you of all the strange events that have happened."



CHAPTER XV.

THE YOUNG COUNTESS'S STORY.

Having made Mary sit down beside her, the young Countess began her story.

"God is surely with you, dear Mary," said she, "and has taken you under His protection. I see now that He has guided my steps here in order that I might find you for whom we have sought so long. Simple as are the events which I am about to relate to you, we can see in them a chain of truly providential circumstances.

"From the time that your innocence was discovered I had no more rest. You and your father were always pressing on my mind, wandering without home and friends. Believe me, my dear Mary, I have shed many bitter tears on your account. My parents were also deeply distressed at the injustice they had unwittingly done you, and sought for you everywhere; but, as you know, without being able to obtain any trace of you.

"Two days ago we came to a hunting-lodge of the Prince in the forest, not far from this village. For twenty years at least this castle has not been visited, the only occupant being a gamekeeper. My father had gone on business, and had spent the whole day in the forest in company with two noblemen whose wives were staying at the castle. It had been a very warm day, and the evening was very fresh. The setting sun, the mountain covered with pines interspersed with picturesque rocks offered such a beautiful spectacle that I begged permission to take a walk. Accompanied by the gamekeeper's daughter I set out, and as we passed along we found the graveyard gate open, and the tombstones gilded by the light of the setting sun.

"Since my childhood I have always had a pleasure in reading inscriptions and epitaphs on tombstones. I am moved when one tells of a young man or woman carried off in the bloom of youth, and I feel a sort of melancholy pleasure if it concerns a person who had reached advanced age. The verses themselves, poor as they may be from a poetical point of view, stir serious feelings within me, and I never fail to carry away with me from a graveyard good thoughts and pious resolutions.

"Entering the graveyard with the gamekeeper's daughter, I began as usual to read the inscriptions. After a little while the girl said to me, 'Come, I will show you something very beautiful. It is the grave of an old man, who has neither tombstone nor epitaph, but it has been ornamented with taste and beauty by the tender piety of his daughter. See, you can just distinguish it through the thick leaves of these pines—the beautiful rose tree and the basket of flowers.'

"You can imagine, dear Mary, the shock I received, when at the first glance I recognised the basket of flowers which had never been out of my mind since that sad day when you left Eichbourg. If there had been any doubts in my mind as to it being the same basket, the initials of my name and the coat-of-arms of my family would have dispelled them. Turning to my companion, I asked if she knew anything of you and your father. She told me all about your life at Pine Farm, your father's sickness and death, and your great grief. After hearing all that the gamekeeper's daughter could tell me, I went to the minister, only to hear the same story with very much praise of yourself added. I would have gone off to Pine Farm immediately, but while the story was being told me, time had passed rapidly, and it was now already quite dark. 'What shall I do,' said I; 'it is now too late to go to the farm, but to-morrow at daybreak we will set out.' Your good friend the minister sent for the schoolmaster to charge him to go and bring you without delay to the castle.

"'My dear young friend,' said the schoolmaster, 'you need not go far to look for her. She has gone to her father's grave to weep there. Alas, poor child!' he continued, 'I saw her sitting there from an opening in the steeple when I went this afternoon to wind up the clock.'

"I at once determined to find you, and the minister wanted to accompany me, but I begged to be allowed to come to you alone, that my first meeting with you might be as affectionate as I desired. While I came here the old minister went to tell my parents where I was, and to prepare them for your arrival. This accounts, my dear Mary, for my sudden appearance before you. You can now see, through God's providence, this basket of flowers which separated us has reunited us by your father's grave—that father who is now inhabiting the home above."

"Yes," said Mary, clasping her hands and raising her grateful eyes to heaven, "God has done it all. He has had pity on my tears and on my needs. How can I thank Him for His goodness and His boundless tenderness?"

"I have still one thing to tell you yet," answered the Countess Amelia, interrupting her, "and it is one which seems to me singularly touching, and inspires me with an awe for the justice of God who directs our lot even when we are unconscious of it. My maid, Juliette, had but one thought, one desire. It was to banish you from my heart and to take your place in my affections. It was with that design that she made up her terrible falsehood, and her wicked plan succeeded too well. But that very falsehood was the means of her afterwards losing her place and our confidence, and that made you dearer than ever to our hearts. Juliette endeavoured to estrange you from me for ever, and your banishment was a constant subject of triumph to her.

"You know how that, in her wickedness, she threw this basket at your feet with an insulting laugh. Well, it was exactly this event which was afterwards, although she little thought it then, to reunite us for ever. For was it not indeed through this basket on your father's grave that I discovered you to-day? Truly, those who have the love of God have nothing to fear from any enemies. God knows how to turn to our advantage all the ill that wicked people do to us; and our most cruel enemies, although for a while they may bring us to unhappiness, can do nothing but contribute to our real and lasting happiness. We may say in this case that our safety comes from our enemies.

"But now, dear Mary," said the Countess, "tell me what brought you so late to your father's grave, and why, when I found you, you were weeping so bitterly."

When Mary had told her story, of how they had driven her from the Pine Farm on a false charge, the Countess was astonished still more at the providence which had brought her and Mary together.

"Yes, indeed," said the Countess to Mary, "it is by God's will that I have found you to-day, just when you were again plunged into the deepest distress. You were imploring His assistance with burning tears running down your cheeks. This is another proof of what we have been speaking, that God knows how to turn to our advantage the ill which our enemies design to do us. The farmer's wicked wife, who drove you from her house, thought she would make you unhappy. Without knowing it she has brought you to my arms and those of my parents, who, as well as myself, are desirous of making your life happy.

"But it is now time to set out," said Amelia. "My parents will be anxious at my long absence. Come, dear Mary, I will never leave you any more. Let us go to my parents."



CHAPTER XVI.

HOW THE RING WAS FOUND.

The road to the castle towards which the Countess now led Mary, lay through a long and dark walk of tall old linden trees. For a while they walked in silence together, each wrapped in her own thoughts, but at last the Countess said to Mary—

"Oh, I must now tell you how the ring was found. My father's affairs requiring his presence at Eichbourg, we left Court earlier than usual this year—in the beginning of March. When we arrived at the Castle, the weather was very boisterous, and one night in particular we had a tremendous storm. You remember the great pear tree we had in our garden at Eichbourg? It was very old, and bore scarcely any fruit. That night the wind, which blew with great violence, had shaken it so much that it threatened every moment to fall, and my father ordered it to be cut down.

"My father, and mother, the children, and servants, and indeed all of the people in the Castle, came into the garden to see it fall. As soon as it was cut down, my two little brothers ran immediately towards a magpie's nest in the tree, which had for a long time been a coveted object, but had hitherto been out of their reach. Now they seized upon the nest and busied themselves examining its contents.

"'Look, Albert!' said Augustus, 'what is that shining among the twigs? How bright it is!'

"'It sparkles like gold,' said Albert.

"My maid, Juliette, ran forward to look at it, and immediately uttered a scream.

"'Oh,' she cried, 'it is the ring!' and became as pale as death.

"The children extricated the ring from among the twigs, and carried it in great glee to my mother.

"'Yes, indeed it is my ring,' said my mother, with deep emotion. 'Oh, good and honest James! oh, poor Mary, what injustice we have done you! I am glad enough to find my ring again, but if I could find James and Mary, I would gladly sacrifice the ring to repair the wrong which we have done them.'

"I was curious to know by what chance the ring was carried into the magpie's nest at the top of the tree, and the old huntsman, Anthony, gave a ready explanation.

"'Neither the gardener James nor his daughter could have hidden the ring in this place, that is very clear,' said he. 'The tree was too high, and it would have been impossible to climb up so far. Besides which, they had not time to do so. Mary had scarcely returned to the house when she and her father were both arrested. Magpies are greatly attracted by anything that shines, and if they can find anything sparkling, they carry it off immediately to their nests. One of these birds must have stolen the ring, and carried it to the tree. That is all the mystery. The only thing that astonishes me is that an old hunter, as I am, should not have thought sooner of this explanation.'

"The old man spoke with deep feeling and with tears in his eyes, but they were tears of joy at seeing your innocence proved.

"'Anthony,' said my mother, 'I believe you are perfectly right, and now I remember quite distinctly that very often these birds came from the top of this tree to my window, that the sash was open when the ring disappeared, that the table on which I put the ring was close to the window, and that, after having shut the door and bolted it, I went into the next room, where I stayed for some time. No doubt one of these mischievous birds saw the ring from his nest, and, while I was in the other room, he must have darted in and carried it off.'

"My father was deeply troubled at the conviction, which he could not resist, that you and your father had been unjustly condemned.

"'My heart is almost broken,' said he, 'for having done these good people so much injury. My only consolation is that it was not done from ill-will, but in ignorance and error.'

"My father now turned to Juliette, who in the universal rejoicing at the discovery of the ring remained silent and pale.

"'False woman,' said he, 'deceitful servant! How could you have the hardihood to lie to me and to the judge, and to compel us to commit an action unwillingly, the iniquity of which now calls for vengeance? What tempted you to plunge into suffering an old and honest man, and his poor and virtuous daughter?'

"'Officers, do your duty,' he said to two constables, who had assisted in cutting down the tree, and who now approached the unhappy Juliette to carry out my father's orders. 'Let her be put in chains,' he added, in a grave tone,—'the same chains that Mary wore,—and let her be thrown into the same prison in which she caused Mary to languish. She must suffer all that Mary suffered, only that, unlike Mary, she has deserved it. What she has been able to hoard of money or clothes shall be taken from her, to compensate, if it be possible, the unhappy old man and his daughter who have had to suffer an unjust sentence. The officer who conducted Mary out of my dominions shall also conduct Juliette, just as she is, to the same place.'

"No one had ever seen my father so exasperated, never had any one heard him speak in such passionate tones. For a while every one was silent, but at last the officers and servants gave voice to their sentiments and thoughts.

"'It is well done,' said one of the officers, seizing Juliette by the arm; 'when one digs another's grave he must fill it himself.'

"'That is what is gained by telling falsehoods,' said the other officer. 'It is true that no thread is so fine that it cannot be seen in the sunshine.'

"'It was a pretty dress which the young Countess gave to Mary,' said the cook in her turn, 'that made Juliette angry. In her rage, and not knowing well what she was about, she began to tell lies, and then it was impossible to retract without acknowledging her guilt. The proverb is true which says that, once the devil has us by the hair, he will hold fast to us afterwards.'

"'It is well, it is well,' said the coachman, who had just finished cutting the tree, and who still had the axe over his shoulder. 'Let us hope she will mend her ways, if she does not wish to be worse off in the next world. The tree that bears not good fruit,' said he, shaking his axe, 'shall be cut down, and cast into the fire.'

"The news of the finding of the ring spread through Eichbourg in a very short time, and every one ran to the place, so that in a little while a great crowd had gathered. The judge who condemned you came also, and every witness of the discovery was as eager as possible to tell him all about it.

"You cannot imagine, my dear Mary," the Countess proceeded, "the effect that the story produced on the good man. Notwithstanding his severity respecting you, he is a man of great probity, and one who has all his life tried to administer justice with strict fidelity.

"'I would give half of my goods,' said he, in a tone that went to the heart of every one who heard him—'yes, I would willingly have given everything I possess if this misfortune had not happened. To have condemned innocence is a frightful thought.' Then, looking round him at the people, he said, in a solemn voice, 'God is the only infallible judge, the only one that cannot be deceived. He knows everything. He alone knew the hiding-place in which the ring had remained until now. The judges of the earth are near-sighted and prone to be deceived. It is rare here below that innocence suffers and vice triumphs. The invisible Judge, who will recompense one day all good actions and punish all bad ones, has decreed that even here innocence shall not always suffer from suspicion, nor hidden crime remain always concealed.'"

While Amelia had been relating this interesting narrative, Mary had been lifting up her heart in silent thanksgiving to God for clearing her character from every stain of suspicion and establishing her innocence in the minds of her friends. By the time Amelia had finished her story, they had arrived at the door of the castle.



CHAPTER XVII.

REPARATION.

The Count, the Countess, and the guests who were at the castle, were assembled in the drawing-room when Amelia and Mary entered. The worthy minister had arrived before them, and had been reciting to a deeply-interested audience, the story of James and Mary and their life at Pine Cottage. He had painted in a touching manner the conduct of the good old man during his residence at Pine Farm, emphasising the love and respect which he bore to the Count and his family. He told of Mary's activity, of her filial piety, and her patience and modesty, until tears streamed from the eyes of his hearers.

At this moment the Countess Amelia, holding Mary by one hand and in the other the basket of flowers, entered the brilliantly-lighted room. Mary was welcomed by all, and loaded with congratulations. The Count himself took her kindly by the hand, and said, "Poor child, how pale and thin you look. It was our hasty judgment that brought your misery upon you, and we must now spare nothing, that happiness may once more be restored to you, and that the faded flowers may once more bloom on your young cheeks. You were driven from your father's house, but in future you shall have it for your own property."

The Countess kissed Mary, pressed her to her heart, called her her daughter, and, taking from her finger the ring which had caused so many misfortunes, she said, "Here, my dear child, although your piety is a great deal more precious than the large diamond which sparkles in this ring, you must accept this present as a feeble compensation for the wrong you have suffered, and as a token of the sincere attachment and maternal tenderness I feel towards you."

With these words she held out the ring to Mary, who was almost overcome with so much kindness and ready to sink under the weight of the benefits she had received. Her tears flowed freely, but they were tears of joy.

"Poor child," said one of the guests, "take what the Countess offers you. God has given the Count and his wife fortune, but He has given them something more precious—hearts which know how to make the best use of riches."

"Why do you flatter us?" said the Countess. "This is not a generous action, it is an act of justice."

Still Mary hesitated about accepting the valuable gift, and turned with streaming eyes towards the minister, as if to ask his advice.

"Yes, Mary," said the venerable man, "you must keep the ring. You see, my good child, how God is blessing your filial piety; for whosoever sincerely honours his parents shall be better for it. Take the valuable present with gratitude, and as adversity found you resigned to the Divine will, so in prosperity show yourself grateful to your heavenly Father—grateful to His dear name, benevolent and kind."

Mary put the ring on her finger and attempted to express her thanks, but tears checked her utterance, and were thus the best expression of her gratitude. Amelia, who sat by her with the basket of flowers in her hand, was delighted with the generous proceedings of her parents. Her eyes shone with affection for Mary; and the minister, who had often observed how envious children generally are when their parents exercise their benevolence towards other people, was deeply touched by this disinterested love of Amelia. "May God," said he, "reward the generosity of the Count and Countess. May all that they have done for the poor orphan be rendered to them a hundredfold in the person of their own dear daughter!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

PINE FARM REVISITED.

The Count and his family were just on the eve of leaving for Eichbourg, and next morning at break of day all was bustle in the castle, preparing for their departure. In the midst of all the preparations, however, Mary was not forgotten, and each one vied with the other in the attentions they paid to her.

Mary's clothes, which she had bought during her residence at Pine Farm, were made of the coarsest material and of the plainest cut. But one of Amelia's friends, a young lady of the same age and size as Mary, at Amelia's request presented Mary with a complete outfit, which, without being extravagant, was more in keeping with her new situation. In answer to Mary's modest protest against donning what seemed to her, extravagantly grand garments, Amelia said, "You are my friend; you are henceforth to be my companion; you are also to live with me. You ought therefore to dress yourself differently from a farm servant."

After breakfast they started on their journey homeward, and Mary sat beside Amelia in the carriage, with the Count and Countess opposite. First of all, however, the Count gave orders for the coachman to drive them to Pine Farm, that he might become acquainted with the people who had entertained Mary and her father so kindly. It was not long before they gathered from Mary's answers that the old people at Pine Farm were far from being comfortable, and that their declining years were not so peaceful as they had a right to expect.

The arrival of a nobleman's carriage at Pine Farm caused no little excitement. No sooner had the young farmer's wife seen the carriage stop at the door than she hastened towards it.

"Sir," said she to the Count, "allow me to assist you and also the ladies, your daughters, I presume."

So saying, she presented her hand to one of the young ladies, when, recognising her to be Mary herself, she uttered an exclamation of surprise, let go her hand as if she had touched a serpent, and drew back in great confusion.

The old farmer was working in his garden when the Count with his family and Mary alighted; and when they went to the good old man, took him by the hand, and thanked him for his kindness towards Mary and her father, the worthy farmer was deeply moved.

"Oh," said he, "I owe that good man more than ever he owed me. The blessing of heaven came with him into our home, and if I had followed his advice in everything, I should have been much better for it at this moment. Since his death I have no pleasure in anything but this garden, which I began to cultivate at his suggestion. Since I have not had strength to follow the plough, I have occupied myself here, and I seek among the herbs and flowers the peace which I can no longer find in my own house."

In the meantime Mary had gone to look for the old farmer's wife in her little room, and she now came forward leading her by the hand. The worthy woman was quite overcome by the strange circumstances in which she found Mary, and the excitement of the moment; and when she came forward to meet the Count and Countess, it was with a timid air, and in evident distress at finding herself the object of so much attention. By and by, however, she and her husband heard the story of the finding of the ring, and so great was their affection for Mary that they cried for joy like children.

"Did I not tell you," said the farmer, addressing Mary, "that your filial piety would receive its reward? You see, my prophecy is already fulfilled," and his wife, who had recovered her self-possession, said, "Yes, yes; your father was right when he said, 'He who clothes the flowers, well knows how to take care of you.'"

While this conversation had been going on, the young farmer's wife stood at some distance, consumed with jealousy and anger.

"Well, well," she said to herself, "there is no saying what will happen in this life. That miserable beggar whom I turned out of my house—look at her now, dressed like a young lady of high rank. Who would have thought of such a thing! Every one, however, knows who she is, so she cannot impose on any one in this town. They know that yesterday she was sent from here with a little package under her arm, to go into the country."

The Count had not heard this abusive language, but a glance at the woman's face was enough to show him that she was nursing angry passions. "She is a wicked creature," he said to himself, as he walked round the garden in a very thoughtful mood.

At last he stopped before the old farmer. "Listen, my good old friend," said he, "while I make a proposition to you. I have given Mary a piece of ground on my estate, which was rented and cultivated by her father. But Mary is not ready to take up housekeeping. What should prevent you from retiring there? It will suit you, I am certain, and the owner will not exact any rent from you. You can cultivate the herbs and flowers in which you find your pleasure, and you will find, in the pretty cottage which is attached to the ground, rest and peace in your old age."

The Count's wife, Amelia and Mary joined in urging the old man to accept this generous offer. But there was no need for persuasion. The old people were happy to be taken from their uncomfortable surroundings, and gladly agreed to the proposal.

At this moment the young farmer came home from the fields. His surprise was as great as his wife's when he saw the carriage at his door drawn by four white horses; for never in the history of the farm had a carriage stopped there before. When he heard of the proposal which the Count had made to his father and mother, he gladly consented to it, although he was deeply grieved to part from his old parents. His consolation was found, however, in thinking that they were going to be happier than they could possibly be with his wife.

As for his wife herself, the only remark she made was to say in a spiteful way to the Count—

"It is a great favour you are doing us in ridding us of two old people who are nothing but a burden!"

Promising to send for the old farmer and his wife as soon as everything was ready, the Count and his family, accompanied by Mary, now stepped into the carriage and drove off. Here for a time we will leave Mary and follow the fortunes of the occupants of Pine Farm.



CHAPTER XIX.

RETRIBUTION.

In course of time, when arrangements had been made for their reception, a carriage was sent from Eichbourg to bring away the old farmer and his wife. Their son was grieved to the heart when the time came for them to go, but their daughter-in-law had counted the days and hours until the time of their departure, and felt nothing but vindictive pleasure at being rid of them. Her joy, however, received a severe check from a note which the coachman presented to her, in which the Count informed her that she and her husband should pay all that had been stipulated for the support of her father and mother-in-law; and that the price of their living valued in money, according to the current market price, should be paid to them every quarter. Realising her helplessness, she became violently angry and turned round to her husband, saying, "We are over-reached. If they had stayed here, it would not have cost us half as much." Her husband was secretly pleased to think that he was still permitted to help his parents in their old age, but he took good care not to show his joy before his wife.

The old people set off in the carriage the next morning, followed by the blessings of their son and the secret ill-wishes of their daughter-in-law.

But the unnatural conduct of this wicked woman was visited with the trouble which is always the lot of avarice and inhumanity. Her secretly-cherished god was gold, and she had lent the bulk of her money to a merchant to use in his business, on his promise to pay her a large interest for the loan. Her greatest pleasure was in making calculations, as to how much her money would amount to after a certain number of years, with all the interest and compound interest added. Suddenly, however, these golden dreams received a rude awakening. The manufacturer's speculations proved unfortunate, and he shortly afterwards failed in business, and his goods were sold by order of the sheriff.

The news came as a thunder-stroke for the farmer's wife, and from the moment that she heard of the catastrophe she had no repose. Every day she kept running to the lawyers, or to her neighbours to complain of her hard lot, and the nights she spent in weeping and scolding her husband. From the wreck of her fortune of ten thousand florins she received only a paltry hundred or two, and so deeply did she feel the loss of her money that she openly declared her wish to die. The result of the continual worrying induced a fever which never left her. When her husband wished to send for a physician she would not consent to it, and when, in spite of her objections, he at last sent for one, his wife in a passion threw the medicine he prescribed out of the window.

At last her husband saw that she was seriously ill, and he requested the minister of Erlenbrunn to come and see her. The good old man visited her frequently and talked to her affectionately, in order to induce her to repent of her sins, and to detach her heart from the things of this earth, that she might turn to God.

But this advice made her very angry. She looked at the good man with utter astonishment. "I do not know," she said, "for what purpose the minister comes to preach repentance to me. He should have delivered such a sermon to the merchant who stole our money. Yes, there would have been some sense in that. As for me, I do not see that I have any reason for repentance. As long as I was able to go out I always went to church, and I have never failed to say my prayers. I have not ceased all my life to do my duty and to behave myself like a virtuous housewife. I defy any living soul to slander me. And of all the poor people who have come to my door, not one can complain that I sent them away without giving them something. Now, I should like to know how any one can behave better!"

The venerable pastor saw that she was justifying herself before God, and he tried by adopting a more direct tone to lead her to contrition. He showed to her that she loved money more than anything else in the world, and that the love of money was idolatry. He showed her that the bursts of anger in which she had indulged were heinous sins before God, that she had totally failed in the most beautiful of all Christian virtues—filial affection; that by her greed of money she had made her husband unhappy, cruelly driven away the poor orphan Mary, and even turned away her husband's parents, those whom she ought to have cherished as if they were her own.

He showed her also that, with a fortune like hers, a little piece of bread given to a poor man to get rid of him did not fulfil the duties which God expected of her, that in spite of all her boasting of going to church she was none the better of it, for her prayers had come from a heart unwarmed by love, and could not ascend to the throne of God. In this faithful way did he talk to her, but only with the result of making her burst into a fit of passionate sobbing.

The illness from which she suffered was a long and trying one. She spent whole nights in coughing, and yet the ruling passion of avarice was so strong that she would scarcely take sufficient nourishment to sustain her. No consoling thought came to her to mitigate her suffering. She was utterly unwilling to resign herself to God and to submit to His will.

The good minister tried in every imaginable way to bring her to a better frame of mind. During the last days of her life she was occasionally a little softened in her manners, but she never evinced any true repentance. In the flower of her age she died, a sad instance of the effects of avarice, passion, and love of the world.



CHAPTER XX.

FORGIVING AN ENEMY.

And now we must return to Mary whom we left in her new surroundings.

Immediately after leaving Pine Farm, Mary went with the Count's family to the city, in which they spent part of every year. While they were there, a clergyman came one morning to their residence and asked to see Mary. He told her that he was charged with a message for her from a person who was very ill and probably near death, and who desired anxiously to speak to her. The clergyman said that the person was not willing to give her message to any one but to Mary herself.

Mary could not imagine what the woman could want with her, and she consulted the Countess as to what she ought to do. The Countess, knowing the clergyman to be a pious and prudent man, advised Mary to go with him, and at the minister's request old Anthony the huntsman accompanied them. After a long walk to the outskirts of the town, they arrived at last at a house situated in a side street, which presented a most gloomy aspect. "Here is the house," said the clergyman, knocking at the door, "but wait a little."

After a few moments he returned for Mary, who then entered with him into a most miserable room. The window was narrow and dark, and some broken panes were patched with paper. The only furniture which the room contained was a miserable truckle-bed, covered with a more miserable mattress, and a broken chair, on which stood a stone pitcher, with neither handle nor cover.

On the miserable bed lay stretched a figure which to Mary's eyes seemed more like a skeleton, but which she gradually made out was the form of a woman, in the last stages of illness.

In a voice which resembled the rattle of death, this miserable creature sought to speak with Mary, who trembled in every limb. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could make out what the poor woman said, but at last she learned, to her horror, that the frightful phantom was Juliette, who at the Castle of Eichbourg had been the beginning and cause of all her distress. After being turned away from the Castle, she had gone from bad to worse, until she had sunk into her present state.

Lying upon her miserable bed, death staring her in the face, remorse had overtaken her, and her one wish was to have Mary's forgiveness. Learning in some way, that the Count and his family were in the city, she begged of the clergyman who was visiting her to ask Mary to come to see her. The poor woman, judging Mary by herself, had entreated the clergyman not to mention her name in case Mary would not come.

Mary was affected to the heart when she heard Juliette's story, and she shed tears of sympathy with her old enemy. She assured her that she had forgiven her long ago, and that the only feeling she experienced was that of the deepest pity for her.



"Alas," said Juliette, "I am a great sinner; I have deserved my fate. Forgetfulness of God, contempt of good advice, love of dress, flattery, and pleasure were the first causes of misery, and these have brought me to my present state. Oh," cried she, raising her voice to a shriek, and weeping bitterly, "that is nothing to the fate which I fear awaits me in the world to come. You have pardoned me, it is true, but I feel the weight of God's anger now settling on my soul."

Mary conversed long and earnestly with her, endeavouring to point her to the Saviour of the world, who would receive her if she truly repented. At last she was obliged to leave her without being satisfied as to her state of mind, but the idea of the unhappy Juliette dying without hope continually pressed on her mind and weighed down her spirits. She recollected her little apple tree in blossom, withered by the frost, and what her father had said on that occasion. The most consoling words he had said on his deathbed presented themselves to her mind, and she renewed the promise she had made to God to live entirely to His glory.

To the Countess she related her discovery, and that generous lady sent the unhappy Juliette medicine, food, and linen, and everything which might tend to relieve her illness. But it was too late, and at the age of twenty-three the once beautiful Juliette, reduced to a mere skeleton and disfigured by disease, died without having given evidence of a changed heart towards God.



CHAPTER XXI.

CONCLUSION.

The next spring, when the country was covered with verdure and flowers, the Count, accompanied by his wife, and daughter, and Mary, went to his home at Eichbourg. Towards evening they approached the village, and when Mary saw in the light of the setting sun the familiar church steeple, the Castle, and the cottage where she had spent so many happy years with her father, she was so deeply touched that tears started to her eyes.

But in the midst of the sorrowful memories which the scene called up in her mind, there came to her a devout feeling of thankfulness for the wonderful way in which God had led her back.

"When I left Eichbourg," she said, "it was in disgrace, and without ever expecting to come back again. The ways of Providence are mysterious, but God is good."

When the carriage stopped at the Castle, the servants and officers belonging to the Count's household were waiting to receive them. Mary had a warm welcome from them all. Every one showed the greatest joy at seeing her again, and their congratulations on her innocence having been proved were manifestly sincere. The old judge who had sent her into banishment was among those who welcomed her most cordially. Taking her hand in the presence of all the servants, he asked her pardon for the mistake he had made. He expressed his gratitude to the Count and Countess for having so nobly repaired the injustice, assured them that he reproached himself for the misfortune, and that he was willing to do everything in his power to discharge his debt.

The exciting day came to an end, and Mary was glad to escape to her chamber. Next morning, the sun shining brightly into her room woke her early. As soon as she was dressed she ran to visit her father's cottage, and to walk once more round the old familiar garden. On her way she met numbers of the villagers, and all of them showed great happiness at seeing her.

The old farmer and his wife, who had now been settled some time in the cottage, were delighted to meet her again. They kissed her affectionately and assured her of the happiness of their new life.

"When you were without a home," said the farmer, with tears in his eyes, "we received you and your father into our own, and now that we are old and had no place that we could call our own, you give us this charming cottage in which we might spend our declining years."

"Yes," said his wife, "it is always well to be generous and hospitable. We never know how soon we shall receive it again."

"Well, well," said her husband, "I am glad we did not think of that then. We took Mary and her father in without hope of reward. However, the maxim is not the less true, 'Do good to others and you will always find some one to do good to you.'"

When Mary entered the cottage, the sight of the place where her father used to sit raised a host of sad but sweet recollections in her mind. She walked round the garden and kissed every tree planted by his hand, seeing in each an old acquaintance. The little apple tree which had been their favourite, was just now covered with blossom, and before it she stopped to meditate for a little on man's brief life, which fades away before the tree which he has planted. In the arbour where she had passed so many happy hours with her father, she rested a little, and gave herself up to reflection. Looking around on the garden, which he had cultivated so diligently by the sweat of his brow, she fancied that she could still see him, and tears streamed from her eyes, when she remembered that he had gone from her for ever. But one thought soothed her heart and made her calm, the thought that he had gone to a better world, and was now reaping the reward of his beautiful life.

As long as Mary lived she spent some weeks every spring at the Castle, cherished and honoured by every one there, and endearing herself to the people of the village, and particularly to the children, among whom she was a great favourite. Her delight was to take them apart and to talk to them of the Saviour, and she had the happiness of believing that many of them under her instructions gave their hearts to God.

A monument had been erected to her father in fulfilment of a promise which Amelia had made to Mary that evening when she found her sitting on her father's grave. It was an elegant monument of white marble, ornamented with an epitaph in gold letters. Besides the name of the deceased, his age and occupation, nothing in the way of epitaph was added but these words of Jesus—

"I am the Resurrection and the Life: He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

Underneath these words a beautiful basket of flowers had been cut from a design drawn by Amelia herself. Underneath the basket was written—

"All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as the flowers of the field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of the Lord endureth for ever."

The erection of this monument gave great satisfaction to the good old minister of Erlenbrunn. The dark background of the fir trees threw the monument into relief, and gave it a very beautiful appearance; and when the rose tree planted by his grave was in bloom, and its branches covered with roses bent over the marble, which was of dazzling whiteness, the sight was a striking one. The humble old man's monument was the most beautiful ornament of the rural churchyard, and the good minister never allowed strangers to leave the church without taking them to see it.

When some people observed that it was a good idea to have put a basket of flowers on the tomb of a man who was at the same time a gardener and a basket-maker, the old minister would say—

"But it is something better than a good idea. The basket of flowers tells more than you know, and it is not without reason that our villagers look upon it as the symbol of a touching story. The ground on which we tread has been bathed with a daughter's tears."

Then he would pour into the attentive ears of strangers the familiar story of the basket of flowers, concluding his recital with the assurance which this whole story is intended to illustrate: That piety towards God and truth towards men will never fail to triumph over the malice of the worst of foes.

Let our readers who have followed this touching story be assured that under all circumstances it is best to do as Mary did—walk in the fear of God, love and obey their earthly parents, stand fast by the truth, and under all circumstances trust fully in God. Thus they will live happy and die with a sure prospect of eternal glory.

THE END



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