"That struck somewhere!" said one. Apollonius thought: "If it should strike St. George's tower, where the gap is, and I should have to climb up, and the clock should strike two, and"—he could think no further. A cry for help, a cry of fire resounded through storm and thunder. "The lightning has struck!" was the cry on the street. "It has struck St. George's tower! Quick to St. George's! Fire! Help! Fire! St. George's! Fire in the tower of St. George's!" Horns blew, drums beat. And always the storm and peal after peal of thunder! Then the cry came: "Where is Nettenmair? If anybody can help it is Nettenmair. Fire! Fire! At St. George's! Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair? The tower of St. George's is on fire!"

The councilman saw Apollonius turn pale, his form sink more deeply into itself than before. "Where is Nettenmair?" was again the cry from the street. Then came a dark flush over his pale cheeks and his slender figure rose to its full height. He buttoned his coat quickly, and drew the strap of his cap firmly under his chin. "If I stay," he said to the councilman, as he turned to go, "remember my father, my brother's wife and the children." The councilman was taken aback. The young man's "if I stay" sounded like "I shall stay." A presentiment came over the friend that here was something that had to do with the salvation of Apollonius' soul. But the expression on Apollonius' face was no longer one of suffering; nor was it anxious or wild. In spite of apprehension and alarm, the stout-hearted man felt something like joyful hope. It was indeed the old Apollonius again who stood before him, with the same quiet, modest resoluteness that had won his heart at the first sight of the young man. "If he would only remain so!" thought the inspector. He had no time to reply. He pressed his hand. Apollonius felt all that this hand-pressure wanted to say. Compassion crept over him for the good old man, and something like regret for the anxiety he had caused him and would still cause him. He said with his old-time smile: "For such cases I am always prepared. But there is no time to spare. Good-by for a while!" Apollonius, who moved more quickly than the councilman, was soon out of sight. All the way to St. George's, amid the cries, the horns, drums, storm and thunder, the councilman kept repeating to himself: "Either I shall never see the good fellow again, or he will be well when he returns." He did not try to explain to himself how he had come to this conclusion. There was no time. His duty as municipal inspector demanded his entire attention.

The cry "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" greeted Apollonius on all sides and echoed in the distance. The confidence of his fellow-citizens awakened in him a renewed sense of his own worth. When, upon returning from afar, he had seen his native town stretched out before him, he had dedicated himself to her and her service. The opportunity now presented itself to show whether he had meant this vow in earnest. He reviewed in his mind all the possible forms of danger and how they could best be met. A fire-sprinkler lay ready in the roof-truss, and cloths were at hand to dip into water and protect the places most in danger. The journeyman had been instructed to have hot water ready. The beams were connected everywhere by ladders. For the first time since his return from Brambach he threw his whole soul into his work. Before real necessity and its demands the visions of his brooding fancy receded like dissolving shadows. All his old elasticity and buoyancy were [Blank Page] called into being again, intensified by the feeling of relief which had taken possession of him. Thoughts can be refuted by thoughts, against feelings they are a very weak weapon. In vain had his spirit seen the way of salvation; he had fallen a victim to the general apathy about him. Now a strong, healthful feeling sprang up in opposition to the strong, morbid ones and devoured them in the ardor of its flame. He knew, without any special thought on the subject, that he had found the solution which brings redemption, and that this was the cause of his renewed being. He knew that dizziness would not overcome him, but if he should remain it would be a sacrifice made to duty, not to guilt, and God and the gratitude of the town would assume in his stead the responsibility for his loved ones.

St. George's Square was thronged with people who gazed in troubled fear at the roof of the tower. The ancient building stood like a rock in the fierce battle which the brightness of lightning and the old night waged untiringly about it. A thousand glowing arms embraced the tower with such ardor that it seemed as if it would be consumed in their glow; like a great surging sea the light broke upon its walls, only to fall back again before the power of night which engulfed all in its dark flood. The mass of pale faces, pressed close together at the foot of the tower, flashed into view during momentary gleams of light but were soon lost again in dreary blackness. The storm tore at their hats and coats, blew hair into their faces, struck them with flapping garments and pelted them with glistening drops of snow, as if it wanted to make them atone for the wounds it received when it beat as rain on the rocky ribs of the tower. And as the people now appeared, now disappeared in alternating light and darkness, so also their confused attempts at conversation were drowned at every turn by storm and thunder.

Somebody called out in self-consolation: "It was a harmless flash; though it struck, nothing caught fire." Somebody else thought that the flame might still break out. A third became angry; he took this suggestion as a wish that the flame might break out. He had been comforted by the first thought; he had to avenge himself for the uneasiness which the suggestion created in his mind. Trembling with cold and anxiety, many stared up stupidly with blinded eyes into space and knew not even why. A hundred voices explained what misfortune would befall the town, must befall it, if the lightning had really struck and the tower had caught fire. Some told of the nature of slate, how it melts in fire and is carried as slack through the air, often setting fire to a whole city at the same time. Others lamented that the storm would further a possible fire, and that there would be no water with which to extinguish it. Still others said that if there were any water it would freeze in the engines and be of no avail. Most of them depicted with fearful eloquence the course that the fire would take. If the burning truss should fall the storm would blow it right where there was a thick cluster of houses, quite near the tower. This was the most dangerous place in the whole town in case of fire, for there were numberless frame verandas in narrow courts, boarded gable roofs and shingle-covered sheds, all crowded so closely together that it would be impossible for a fire-engine to be squeezed in among them or for the firemen to get at their work. If the burning truss should fall on this side, as it most certainly would, the entire portion of the town that lay before the wind would be irretrievably lost. These reflections reduced the timid to such a state of mind that every new flash seemed to them the inevitable fire. That nobody could see more than one side of the tower at a time tended to increase the misapprehension. It was curious, but from all sides the cry was heard: "Where? Where?" Storm and thunder prevented mutual understanding. Everybody wanted to see for himself. Wild excitement prevailed.

"Where did it strike?" asked Apollonius, who had just arrived. "On the side toward Brambach," answered many voices. Apollonius pushed his way through the crowd. With long strides he hastened toward the tower steps. He had come considerably in advance of his more deliberate associates. In the tower his questions were to no purpose. The people in the tower thought that though the lightning had struck it had not set fire to anything; still they were on the point of gathering together their best things to flee from the danger. Only the journeyman, whom he found occupied at the stove, remained self-possessed. Apollonius hastened with lanterns to the truss, to hang them there. The ladder steps did not tremble beneath his feet; he was in too great haste to notice it. There seemed to be no trace of incipient fire in the truss. Neither the odor of sulphur, which denotes fire by lightning, nor ordinary smoke was perceptible. Apollonius heard his associates on the steps. He called to them that he was there. Just at that moment a blue light flashed through all the tower-windows followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. Apollonius stood for an instant, stunned. If he had not unconsciously caught hold of a beam, he would have fallen to the ground from the shock. A thick fume of sulphur took his breath away. He sprang to the nearest window to obtain fresh air. The workmen farther from where it had struck had not been stunned, but stood motionless with fright on the topmost flight of steps. "Come!" cried Apollonius. "Quick! the water! The sprinkler! It must have struck on this side—that's where the pressure and the smell of sulphur came from. Quick, water and the sprinkler at the door!" The master-carpenter, standing on the ladder steps, called, coughing, "But the smoke!" "Quick!" replied Apollonius, "the door will give more air than we want." The mason and the chimney-sweep followed the carpenter, who carried the hose with the sprinkler, as quickly as he could, up the ladder steps. The others brought buckets of cold water, the journeyman a pail of hot water to pour over the cold to prevent its freezing.

At such moments he who remains calm inspires confidence; to the self-possessed man of action others defer without question. The wooden passage-way to the door was narrow, but through Apollonius' intelligent directions room was immediately found for all. Next to Apollonius stood the carpenter, then the sprinkler, then the mason. The sprinkler was so turned that the two men had the levers before them. Two strong men could work it. Behind the mason stood the journeyman who was to pour hot water on the cold as often as was necessary. Others performed the journeyman's previous duty; they melted snow and ice and kept the water thus obtained in the watchman's warm room so that it should not freeze again. Still others were ready to serve as carriers and formed a sort of double line between roof and watchman's room. While Apollonius was explaining to the carpenter and mason, in rapid words and signs, his plan of action which they then carried into effect, he had taken hold of the roof-ladder with his right hand and was reaching out with his left toward the bolt of the door. The workmen were all full of hope, but when the storm whistled in through the opened door, tore the carpenter's cap from his head, blew masses of fine snow against the beams, howled, rattled, and blustered against the ridge of the roof, while flash after flash of lightning broke through the dark opening, the bravest among them wanted to withdraw his hand from the futile work. Apollonius had to stand with his back to the door to get his breath. Then gripping the lath-work above the door, with both hands, he bent his head back in order to get a look at the roof from the outside. "It can still be saved," he cried with an effort so that he could be heard above the storm and the uninterrupted rolling of the thunder. He seized the tube of the shorter hose, the lower end of which the carpenter had screwed onto the sprinkler, and wound the upper part around his body. "When I pull twice on the hose start the sprinkler; we'll save the church and perhaps the town." With his right hand propped against the lath-work he swung himself out of the door; in his left hand he held the light roof-ladder which he wanted to hang on the next hook above the door. This seemed impossible to the workmen. The storm would certainly tear the ladder down, and all too possibly the man with it. It came in well for Apollonius that the wind pressed the ladder against the surface of the roof. There was plenty of light by which to find the hook; but the fine snow which flurried about and, rolling down from the roof, struck him in the eyes, was a hindrance. He could feel, however, that the ladder hung securely. There was no time to lose; he swung himself up on it. He had to trust more to the strength and sureness of his arms and hands than to a secure footing as he climbed upward, for the storm swayed man and ladder to and fro like a bell. Above, to one side of the topmost rung of the ladder, blue flames with yellow points leaped forth from under the gap and licked the edges of the slate roof. The lightning had struck two feet below the point where the sheet of lead was lacking. A short hour ago he had been frightened by the thought of the mere possibility that the lightning could strike there and that he would have to climb up—a series of dark, deadly fever visions had risen before him: now, all had happened as he had pictured it—but the gap was like any other part of the tower-roof and he stood on the ladder, free from all dizziness, pervaded only by a keen, strong desire to avert impending danger from church and town. Yes, something that had enhanced his vague fears now proved to be of distinct advantage to him. The water which had been pouring into the hole for weeks, and which was now frozen in the wood, prevented the flame from obtaining the upper hand as quickly as it would otherwise have done. The area taken possession of by the fire up to the present time was small. The frost in the boarding had stubbornly beat back the leaping, ever-returning flames and it would take time before they could permanently strike root and from their vantage point do further destruction. If they had united in one big flame and overstepped the space below the hole protected by the frost, the fire would soon have grown to gigantic proportions and the church, perhaps the town, have succumbed to the combined force of fire and storm. He saw that there was still time to save, and he needed the strength that this thought gave. The ladder not only swung backward and forward, it moved up and down. What could be the cause of that? If the beams of the roof were loose—but he knew that that was not the case—this movement would be impossible. But the trouble was that the ladder was not hanging on the hook; he had hung it on a projecting tin oak-leaf which formed part of the roof's decoration, near one of the rivets, and he had neglected to fasten the other end of the garland on which the ladder hung. His weight was pulling on it now and dragging it and the ladder gradually down. An inch more and the leaf would be horizontal, the ladder would slide off it and he and the ladder together would fall into the tremendous depth below. His newly-acquired courage was to be put to the test. Six inches from the leaf was the hook. He took three cautious steps up the tottering ladder; then, seizing hold of the hook with his left hand and holding fast, he raised the ladder with his right hand from the leaf to the hook. It hung securely. He let go the hook and, holding fast to a rung of the ladder with both hands, stepped back onto it again. And now the slates below the hole began to glow; it would not be long before the burning particles carried destruction far and near. Apollonius drew his claw-hammer from his belt; a few strokes with the tool and the slate fell, splintering below. Now he could see clearly the very small area of burning surface; his confidence increased. He pressed twice on the hose and the sprinkler began to work. First he held the nozzle toward the hole so that the lath-work above might be the better protected from the flame. The sprinkler proved to be powerful; the water that penetrated beneath the edge of the slate shivered it into small bits. The flames cracked and leaped angrily under the gushing water; only when the jet was turned directly upon them, and then more by means of its smothering power than its inherent qualities, did it finally vanquish them.

The surface of the fire lay black before him; there was no hissing in response to the jet from the hose. Far below him the works of the clock rattled. It struck two! Two strokes! Two! And he stood and did not plunge headlong into space. How different in reality from what his feverish forebodings had threatened! In his brooding, waking dreams he had stood at the top of the tower, it had struck two, a great dizziness had come over him and dragged him down, to expiate a dark crime. But now he stood there in reality, the ladder swayed in the storm, snowdust flurried about him, lightning darted around him, the sheet of snow on roofs, mountains and valley shimmered bright with each gleaming flash, it struck two below him, the tone of the bells, rent by the storm, wailed in the tumult, and he stood, stood free from all dizziness and did not fall. He knew that no guilt was attached to him, he had done his duty where thousands would have failed, he had saved the town which he loved with all his soul, from a terrible danger. But there was no vainglory in his heart, only a prayer of thanksgiving. His thoughts were not of the people who would praise him, but of those who would breathe freely again, of the misery that had been prevented, of the happiness that would be preserved. For the first time in many months he felt what it means to breathe freely. This night had brought gladness to him. With joy he looked back on the vow that he had made. To men like Apollonius, the highest blessing of a good deed is that it gives courage for new good deeds.

The throng below still cried: "Where? Where?" and crowded close together when the second stroke occurred. They stood for a moment paralyzed with fear. "Thank the Lord! It was harmless this time too!" exclaimed one voice. "No! No! It is burning. God have mercy!" replied others; sharp eyes saw in the darkness that appeared between the flashes little blue flames leaping like candles over the slate. These flames sought one another and when they found one another they blazed up convulsively into a larger flame, then fled dancingly away and shivered into pieces. The storm bent and blew them here and there; sometimes they seemed to die out, but suddenly they leaped up brighter than ever. They were growing, one could see that, but their growth was not rapid. Much more rapid and vehement was the new cry of fire that swelled through the town. In anxious suspense the gaze of all was riveted on the one small spot. "Help! Now! It can still be put out!" And again through storm and thunder sounded the agonized cry: "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" A voice called, "He is in the tower." All hearts felt relief when they heard that. And most of them did not know him, even among those who called out for him, and those who did not know him cried out loudest. In moments of general helplessness the crowd clings to a name, to a mere word. Some thus thrust from themselves the calls of conscience which demanded personal effort, personal risk, and these are they who are most merciless in their judgment of the helper if he is unable to help. The rest are happy if they can delude themselves for the moment. "What could he do?" cried one. "Help! Rescue!" cried others. "Even if one had wings, he would not dare the ascent in such a storm." "Nettenmair surely would." In the depths of their hearts, however, even the most confident knew that he would not. The thought that the flame could be extinguished if it were only accessible aggravated the general spirit of uneasiness. It prevented that dull submission which the inevitable with gentle severity compels. When the door opened and the suspended ladder became visible, and it seemed as if somebody were going to dare the deed, the effect on the crowd was as terrifying as the stroke itself had been. And the ladder hung and swayed in the air with the man who was climbing upward, enveloped in snow, encircled by lightning; the ladder that seemed cut from a splinter swinging with the man like a bell in the awful heights. Every one held his breath. The same expression of horror stared from hundreds of unlike faces at the man on high. None believed in the daring feat—and yet they saw the man who dared. It was like something that was at the same time dream and reality. Nobody believed in it, and yet each one stood himself on the ladder while under him swung the light splinter in storm and lightning and thunder, high between heaven and earth. And again they stood below on the firm earth and looked upward; and yet if the man should fall it would be they who fell. The people on the firm ground held convulsively to their own hands, to their canes, to their clothes, that they might not fall from the terrible height. They stood secure, and yet at the same time they hung over the abyss of death, for years, for a lifetime; the past had never been; and yet they had only been hanging on high for a moment. They forgot the peril to the town and their own, in the peril of the man above them whose peril was their own. They saw that the fire was quenched, the danger to the town was over; they knew it as in a dream when one knows that he dreams; it was a mere thought without a living meaning. Only when the man had climbed down the ladder, had disappeared into the door and drawn the ladder after him, only when the people no longer clung to their own hands, canes, and clothes, only then did admiration battle with anxiety, only then did the exultant cry: "Hurrah! Brave fellow!" become smothered in the lament: "He is lost!" A trembling old voice began to sing: "Now thank we all our God!" When the aged man came to the line: "Who has protected us," a great consciousness seemed to sweep over the people of what might have been lost and what had been rescued for them. Absolute strangers fell into one another's arms, each embraced in his neighbor the loved ones whom he might have lost and who had been saved. All united in the singing of the hymn; the sounds of thanksgiving swelled through the whole town, soared over the streets and squares where the people stood who had feared to go closer, entered the houses, penetrated into the innermost chambers, rose to the remotest garrets. The sick man in his lonely bed, the old man in the chair where weakness had bound him, little children who did not know the meaning of the hymn or of the danger that had been averted, all joined in the song of praise. The town was one great church, and storm and thunder the giant organ. Again the cry was heard: "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair? Where is our helper? Where is our rescuer? Where is the brave fellow? Where is the noble man?" Wind and storm were forgotten. Everybody pushed forward, looking for the man who was being called on all sides. The tower of St. George's was besieged. The carpenter appeared, saying that Nettenmair had lain down in the watchman's room to rest for a few moments. The carpenter was beset with questions. Had he been injured at all? Would his health suffer? The carpenter could tell nothing except that Nettenmair had done more than a man is capable of doing in the ordinary course of events. In such supreme moments man is a different being; later he marvels himself at the power he displayed. But everything must be paid for. It would not surprise the carpenter if, after the tremendous exertion, Nettenmair should sleep for three days and nights at a stretch. The people seemed prepared to wait on the steps for that length of time, in order to see the brave man as soon as he waked. In the meantime a prominent man had begun to take up a collection in the market-place. Money, of course, could not reward such a deed as had been performed that day; but at least they could show their gratitude to the courageous doer. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, acknowledged misers hastened home to fetch their contribution, regardless of the fact that in an hour they would regret having done so. Not many of the well-to-do refused to contribute, all the poor gave their share. The collector was astonished at the rich success of his efforts.

Apollonius rested for half an hour. Before he lay down he saw that the lanterns were carefully put out. He closed the door, and had the sprinkler emptied and the hose brought into the watchman's room so that the frost could do no harm to them. He was able to stand no longer. The councilman, who had come to him in the meantime, had to compel him almost with force, to go down to the watchman's room. His friend then bolted the door, made Apollonius take off his frozen clothes, and sat down like a mother at his bedside. Apollonius could not sleep, but the old man did not allow him to speak. He had brought rum and sugar with him, and there was hot water enough; but Apollonius, who had never drunk anything strong, declined the grog with thanks. In the meantime the workman had brought clothes. Apollonius assured them that he felt perfectly himself again but that he felt a hesitancy about getting out of bed. Laughingly the old man gave him his clothes. Apollonius had undressed under the bedclothes and in the same way he now dressed beneath them. The councilman turned his back to him and looked laughingly out of the window at storm and lightning; whether his smiles were over Apollonius' bashfulness or from pure joy at having his favorite again he did not know. He had often regretted having remained a bachelor, now he was almost glad. He had a son at any rate, and as good a one as a father could wish.

Trouble now began for Apollonius. He was torn from arm to arm; even women of prominence kissed and embraced him. His hands were so shaken and squeezed that for three days he had no feeling in them. He did not lose, however, his naturally noble bearing. His modest, blushing embarrassment in the face of so much enthusiastic thanks and admiring praise, became him as well as his brave, determined conduct in time of danger. Those who did not already know him were amazed; they had formed a very different conception of him: dark, bold-eyed, audacious, overflowing with spirits, in fact almost wild. Still they had to acknowledge that his appearance was not at variance with his deed. His maidenly blushes lent an added charm to the tall manly figure, and the modest embarrassment of his honest face, which seemed in no way to realize what he had done, was very winning; his gentle thoughtfulness and quiet simplicity placed his achievement in a still more pleasing light, for it was plainly to be seen that vanity and ambition had played no part in it.

* * * * *

We pass now in spirit over a period of three decades and return to the man with whom we were occupied at the beginning of our tale. We left him in the arbor of his little garden. The bells of St. George's called the dwellers of the town to morning service; they sounded also in the garden behind the house with the green shutters. There he sits every Sunday at this time. When the bells call to afternoon service he is seen wending his way to church with his silver-headed cane in his hand. Nobody sees the old gentleman without greeting him with reverence. It has been nearly thirty years, but there are still people who lived through that remarkable night. They can tell those who do not know what the man with the silver-headed cane did for the town on that night. And to what he set on foot the next day the stones themselves bear witness. Just outside of the town, on the road to Brambach, not far from the rifle-range there rises a stately building with a pleasant garden. It is the new town hospital. Every stranger who goes to it learns that its conception originated with Herr Nettenmair. He also has to listen to the entire story of that night, and of Herr Nettenmair's brave deed, who was then a young man; and how a collection was taken up for him, and how he gave this money to the town as a nucleus for the hospital, and how rich citizens, inspired by his example, donated and bequeathed until, after a number of years, an additional contribution from the town completed the sum necessary for the erection of the building.

When Herr Nettenmair returns from church he spends the rest of Sunday in his little room where he still lives; or he takes a walk to the slate quarry, which now belongs to him, or rather to his nephews. The fulfilment of the vow which he made to himself has continued to be the aim of his life. Everything that he has done he has done for his brother's family, he has considered himself only the administrator. If he happens to see a pretty little girl anywhere, he thinks of dear little dead Annie. His memory is as conscientious as he himself, for he always calls the child to him, strokes her hair, and it would be strange indeed if he did not find in the pocket of his blue coat something or other wrapped up in nice clean paper which he produces to bring forth a word of thanks from the little mouth. The child, however, cannot enjoy herself to the full until he has gone, for, in spite of his friendliness, his tall figure has something so grave and solemn about it that her joy is usually swallowed up in respect. During the week Herr Nettenmair sits over his books and letters, or superintends the packing and unpacking, the chipping and sorting of the slate. Punctually at twelve o'clock he has his dinner in his room, punctually at six his evening meal; this takes a quarter of an hour. Then, rubbing his hand gently over the old sofa, he rises and, if it is summer time, exercises for three-quarters of an hour in his garden. On the stroke of a quarter to one and a quarter to seven he latches the door behind him. On Sunday it is different; then he sits for a whole hour in the arbor and gazes up at the church roof of St. George's. There is little for us to tell; the reader knows all that goes on in Nettenmair's soul, and what he reads from the church tower. The reader also knows to whom the aged but still beautiful face belongs that sometimes peers through the trellised arbor at the old man. The lock which is now white was dark brown and full, falling over an unwrinkled forehead, the cheeks glowed with youthful strength, the lips were red and smiling and the blue eyes gleamed when she hastened to meet the man who had rescued the town. He kissed her gently on the brow and called her "Sister." She understood what he meant. Even at that time she looked up to the man with the submission, nay, the devotion with which she now hangs on his every word; but at that time there was another feeling as well that showed itself in her open countenance.

The old gentleman flew into a rage when Apollonius told him of his determination not to marry. He gave his son his choice between considering the honor of the family or returning to Cologne. Apollonius' heart found it harder than his head to convince his father that it devolved upon him alone to uphold the honor of the family and that he must remain. He knew that he could keep his word only by remaining true to his determination. But he could not tell his father this, for if the old man should discover the true relation existing between the two young people he would insist upon the marriage more strongly than ever. Then he would also have to tell him how his brother had met his death, and that would cause his father unnecessary pain. He did not realize that his father in his heart was convinced that his brother had taken his own life. The two men, so closely related, did not understand each other. Apollonius assumed that his father had the same inward sense of honor which he himself possessed; and the father saw in his son's refusal and in his argument of having to maintain the position of the family, nothing but the old obstinacy contending that his presence was indispensable and not even taking the trouble to conceal itself—he thought that in his son's eyes he was nothing but a blind, helpless old man. And what caused and furthered their misunderstanding was reserve, that family trait which they held in common. On the same morning a delegation had tendered Apollonius the thanks of the town and its most prominent citizens had vied with each other in giving tokens of esteem and respect. This was cause enough to arouse arrogance in an ambitious soul, and cause enough for the old gentleman, who considered that Apollonius had such a soul, to believe in this arrogance. The old gentleman had to admit that his son was indispensable and dared assert neither right nor might against him. The emotion and mental exertion on the day before the death of his eldest son had undermined his strength; he collapsed entirely now and became each day queerer and more sensitive. He no longer demanded subserviency from Apollonius; he found a certain self-tormenting pleasure in reproaching his son with unfilial conduct, and in continually giving expression to his bitter regret that such an industrious son should have to put up with so much from an overbearing old father who was not, and never could be, anything any more. At the same time he rejoiced in his eccentric fashion over the industry of his son, the growing honor and increasing fortunes of his house. He lived to see the purchase of the slate quarry which Apollonius had previously leased. The son endured his father's eccentricities with the same loving, untiring patience which he had exhibited toward his brother. He lived only in the thought of fulfilling as completely as lay within his power the vow that he had made to himself, and in this vow he had included his father. The success of his work gave him strength to bear all little annoyances with cheerfulness.

On the day after the winter night's storm he had told the old building inspector the whole story of his inner life. The councilman, who till the day of his death clung to Apollonius with all his soul, remained the latter's only companion, as he was the only person with whom he could hold intimate intercourse without being untrue to his own nature.

For several days after the storm Apollonius had to lie in bed. A burning fever had taken hold of him. At first the physician pronounced his illness a very serious one, but in reality it was only the body fighting triumphant battle against the general suffering which had found mental absolution in the resolve of that night. The sympathy of the town manifested itself in various touching ways. The old councilman and Valentine were his nurses. The one whom nature through love and gratitude had determined upon as the best nurse for the sick man, Apollonius did not call to his bed, and she dared not go uncalled. Throughout his illness, however, she took up her abode in the little trellised arbor and remained there so as to be as near to him as possible. When he slept the old councilman beckoned to her to enter. Then she stood with folded hands behind the screen at the foot of his bed and accompanied his every breath with anxiety and hope. Unconsciously her gentle breathing regulated itself by his. For hours she stood looking through a crack in the screen at the sick man. He knew nothing of her presence, and yet the inspector could see how his sleep became easier, his face more smiling. There was no bottle from which he took his medicine which, without his knowing it, he did not receive from her hand, no plaster, no application which she had not prepared; no cloth, no cover touched him which she had not warmed on her breast, kissed with her loving lips. When he talked with the councilman about her, she saw that he was more anxious concerning her than himself; when he sent friendly, comforting messages to her she trembled behind the screen with joy. She rested but little; and when the cold night wind blew flakes of snow through the loose blinds onto her warm face, when her own breath, frozen on the pillow, touched icily throat, chin and bosom, she was happy in the thought that she was allowed to suffer something for him who had suffered all for her. In those nights sacred love conquered earthly love in her; out of the pain of sweet, disappointed desire which yearned to possess, arose his image surrounded once more by that halo of unattainable glory in which she had known him of yore.

Apollonius recovered quickly. And now began the joint life of these two people. They saw each other but seldom. He lived in his little room by himself. Valentine brought him his meals, as always. The children were often with him. If the two happened to meet, he greeted her with friendly reserve and she returned his greeting. If they had anything to discuss together it happened each time as if by chance that either the maid was present or the children and Valentine. But no day passed without some silent token of courteous respect. On Sundays, when he came in from his garden, he brought a bouquet of flowers with him which Valentine then presented to her. He could have made a brilliant marriage, gallant lovers sued for her hand; but he repelled all offers and she all suitors. So passed days, weeks, months, years, decades. The old gentleman died and was buried. The good councilman followed, and then Valentine. The children grew to be youths. The unruly lock over the widow's brow, Apollonius' corkscrew-curl, turned gray; the children became men, strong and gentle like their teacher and master; lock and curl were silver white; the life of the two remained the same.

Now the reader knows all the past which the old man, sitting in his arbor, reads from St. George's tower when the bells call for Sunday morning service. Today he looks forward into the future, rather than backward into the past. For his older nephew is soon to lead Anna Wohlig's daughter to the altar of St. George's, and then home; not to the house with the green shutters, however, but to the big house close by. The pink-tinted house is too small for the growing business—and besides the new household would not find room there; Herr Nettenmair has bought the big house across the way. The youngest nephew is going to Cologne. The old cousin who did so much for Apollonius has been dead for many years; also the son has died, leaving his large business to his only child who is the betrothed of Fritz Nettenmair's younger son. There will be a double wedding at St. George's. The two old people will then live alone in the house with the green shutters. For a long time the old gentleman has wanted to hand over the business to his nephews, but the young men have steadfastly refused till now. The older nephew insists that his uncle shall remain at the head; the old gentleman does not wish to do so. A part of the councilman's estate, which he inherited, he has reserved for himself for his lifetime; everything else, and that is by no means little, for Herr Nettenmair is considered a rich man, he will give over to his nephews; what he has reserved for himself will go at his death to the new town hospital. He has made good his word; he will go down to his grave with unsullied name.

The future bride protests against accepting all that her mother-in-law wants to give her. There is but one thing that the old lady wishes to keep for herself; it is a little tin box with a withered flower, and it lies with her Bible and hymn-book, as sacred to the owner as these.

The bells still call. The roses on the tall bushes are fragrant as of yore; a white-throat sits on the bush beneath the old pear-tree and sings; a gentle breeze steals through the garden and even the box around the circular beds rustles its dark leaves. The old gentleman looks musingly at the tower of St. George's; the beautiful matron's face peers through the trellis at him. The bells call it, the white-throat sings it, the roses breathe it, the gentle breeze whispers it, the beautiful aged faces speak it, from the tower roof of St. George's you may read it: "Men tell of the happiness and unhappiness that heaven brings them! What men call happiness and unhappiness is but the raw material. It lies within man himself to mold that material as he will. It is not heaven that brings happiness; man prepares happiness for himself, and raises heaven in his own breast. Man need take no care to go to heaven, if heaven but comes to him. Who carries not heaven within himself may search in vain for it through all the universe. Be guided by reason, but encroach not upon the sacred bounds of feeling. Turn not disapprovingly from the world as it is, but seek to be just to it, and it will be just to thee. In this sense let thy path be

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH."

THE END