• TABLE OF CONTENTS
HIDE
 Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Frontispiece
 Title Page
 Hid in a cave
 The selfish little girl
 Advertising
 Back Cover
 Spine














Title: Hid in a cave, and, The selfish little girl
CITATION THUMBNAILS PAGE TURNER PAGE IMAGE ZOOMABLE
Full Citation
STANDARD VIEW MARC VIEW
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00025369/00001
 Material Information
Title: Hid in a cave, and, The selfish little girl
Alternate Title: Selfish little girl
Physical Description: 126, 2 p., 4 leaves of plates : col. ill. ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Cassell, Petter & Galpin
Publisher: Cassell, Petter and Galpin
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: 1859
Copyright Date: 1859
 Subjects
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Abduction -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Romanies -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Missing children -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Hermits -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Rescues -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Selfishness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temper tantrums -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1870   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1870
Genre: Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
 Notes
General Note: Approximate dates according to Brown, P. A. London publishers and printers, p. 34.
General Note: Publisher's catalogue follows text.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy has inscribed date: 1870.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00025369
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: ltqf - AAB7503
notis - ALH1865
oclc - 14354822
alephbibnum - 002231488

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter 1
        Front Matter 2
    Half Title
        Page 1
    Frontispiece
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Hid in a cave
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
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        Page 22a
        Page 22b
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        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 34a
        Page 34b
        Page 35
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        Page 37
        Page 38
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        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 68a
        Page 68b
        Page 69
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        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    The selfish little girl
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
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        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
    Advertising
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
    Back Cover
        Page 131
        Page 132
    Spine
        Page 133
Full Text









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HID IN A CAVE.























































THE LITTLE BED WAS EMPTY.
(Frontsp.ece.)


page 13










HID IN A CAVE;


AND


THE SELFISH LITTLE GIRL.


WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS.








LONDON:
CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN;
AND 596, BROADWAY, NEW YORK.




This page contains no text.









HID IN A CAVE.


CHAPTER I.
LITTLE HENRY.
IN the beginning of the last century
there lived, in an old but very beautiful
castle near a wood, Count Frederick
and Countess Adelaide of Eichenfels.
Their only child was a very beautiful
boy, named Henry, whom they greatly
loved. Before the child could say 4
" Father," the Count was obliged to go
forth to the wars. The good Countess
remained in the castle; and her only
comfort in the absence of her husband,
her only joy in her solitude, was her
beloved little Henry. She purposed to
devote herself to educating him, and







HID IN A CAVE.


her whole heart longed for the happy
moment when she should hasten to meet
her beloved husband with her beautiful
boy in her arms.
One evening the Countess was sitting
in her room, with the child on her lap.
Margaret, the child's nurse, stood near
her, and held towards the child, in
a playful manner, a freshly-gathered
flower. The child laughingly stretched
his little hands towards it, and his
mother smiled too, and rejoiced in the
pleasure of her child. At that moment
a servant arrived, who had gone with
the Count to the army, and brought
the sorrowful intelligence that the
Count was badly wounded, and desired
before his death, which might be near,
to see his wife. The Countess became
deadly pale, and her trembling hands
could scarcely hold the child. When







LITTLE HENRY.


the messenger saw the terror of the
Countess, he tried to give some hope
that her husband might yet recover;
at the same time he could not conceal
that she must travel night and day,
without stopping, if she would be sure
of seeing him alive. The Countess
decided to set off immediately. She
wept over her child. "Thou, dear
little Henry," said she, thou dost not
know why thy mother weeps. Poor
child! thou losest thy father without
knowing him. Oh, how it grieves me
that I cannot take thee with me on
this long, painful journey to the field
of battle !"
Oh Margaret," she cried, as she
turned towards the nurse, "I give in
charge to you this dear one whom I
must leave behind. Take the greatest
care of the child. Do not leave him a







HID IN A CAVE.


single moment alone, not even when
he is asleep. Take as much care of
him as if I were present. Carry him
every fine day, especially in the morn-
ing, into the garden for fresh air.
Sing little songs to him, talk to him,
often show him flowers, and other
beautiful things. Do not let the little
one have anything in his hands that
can hurt him, that he can prick him-
self with, or that he could swallow.
And, above all, you will be careful to
do him no harm yourself, nor be angry
with him for his childish helplessness.
Watching over little children is an
angelic work. Be a good angel to the
child."
The house-keeper, into whose
charge I give the whole house, will
inform me whether you have strictly
obeyed all my commands. Promise me







LITTLE HENRY.


not to neglect my last injunctions,
that I may at least be free from
anxiety in this matter. I shall count
the hours till I return. If you then
restore the child well and happy to
my arms, I shall know how to reward
you.
Margaret promised all. The Countess
kissed the child, blessed him, and
gazed on him with overflowing eyes,
while she secretly prayed to heaven;
then gave the child into Margaret's
arms, got into her carriage amid the
lamentations of her servants and de-
pendants, and departed in the midst
of a heavy rain, and as the shades of
evening were falling.










CHAPTER IL
THE EMPTY CRADLE.
MARGARET was a poor orphan country
girl. She had a childlike, pious mind,
a cheerful disposition, and a very
pretty, blooming countenance. For
these reasons the Countess had chosen
her as attendant on little Henry.
Margaret, like a good girl, obeyed all
her orders exactly, and there was not
a single hour when the injunctions
of the Countess were not in her
thoughts; for she loved the noble
lady as her greatest benefactor, and
had the greatest delight in the beau-
tiful child. She honoured in him
already her future Count and master.
One day Margaret was sitting, with
her knitting, beside the beautifully
ornamented cradle of the sleeping







THE EMPTY CRADLE.


child. She had decked the top of the
cradle with roses, so that when the
child awoke he should immediately see
something pretty. A fine white veil
protected him, so that no fly should
disturb his sleep; and lovelier and more
beautiful than the fresh roses shone
the rosy cheeks of the sleeping infant
through the delicate, transparent veil.
Some travelling musicians came be-
fore the castle gate, and began playing.
The people in the castle ran together,
and called the musicians into a lower
room, in order, whilst the master and
mistress were away, to have a pleasant
afternoon with music and dancing.
Margaret loved nothing better than
music, yet, remembering the words of
the Countess, she remained quietly
seated beside the cradle of the sleeping
child. George, the gardener's boy, ran







RID IN A CAVE.


hastily into the room. Margaret,"
cried he, come down! You do not
know how we are enjoying ourselves
there. I never heard such beautiful
music. One of them has a cymbal,
and is beating upon it as if he would
break it to pieces. A little boy is
playing the triangle. A great stout
youth is blowing the posthorn, which
makes one's ears tingle almost more
than the triangle Come down
quickly !"
Margaret said she dare not leave the
child a moment.
Do not be so silly," said the giddy
youth. "The child is asleep, and
you cannot help him to sleep. Come,
come, and do not be foolish. One turn in
the dance you will not refuse me. You
can be back in a quarter of an hour."
Margaret allowed herself, though








THE EMPTY CRADLE.


with beating heart, to be over-per-
suaded, and went down with him;
but she had very little pleasure, and
felt very uneasy. She wished to go,
but the others detained her. At last
she tore herself away, and hastened to
the cradle of the beloved child, who
had been intrusted to her.
But what horror seized her! The
little bed was empty-she could see
nothing of the child! She comforted
herself with the hope that one of the
people in the castle, in order to frighten
her, had put the child into another bed.
But even the thought that this might
become known to the Countess made
her tremble. She hurried from room
to room, but could see nothing of
the child. A dreadful fear overcame
her. She rushed down, and called out
among the dancers : The young Count








14 HID IN A CAVE.

is not in his cradle; which of you has
frightened me so, and taken away the
child ?" Nobody knew anything about
it; no one had left the room. The
dancing ceased immediately, and the
musicians departed without waiting to
be paid. Every one in the room
hastened out in terror; every place
was searched. It was soon discovered
that, besides the child, many valuable
things were missing. What could
they think, but that the child had
been stolen? Their former pleasure
was changed into weeping and mourn-
ing. The sorrow was as great as if
there had just been a funeral in the
house.
"Alas alas 1" cried the house-
keeper, weeping. "Alas! the good
Countess! What will she do when
she hears it ? It will kill her !"








THE GRIEF IN THE CASTLE. 15

But Margaret was in despair. In the
first feeling of terrible anguish she
had rushed out, and would probably
have plunged into the river if she
had not been held back. Oh! who
would have thought," she exclaimed
repeatedly, who would have believed,
that so trifling a disobedience would
have such terrible consequences !"


CHAPTER III.
THE GRIEF IN THE CASTLE.
WHILST all the people in the castle
were full of terror and bewilderment,
weeping and lamenting in the child's
room, and Margaret, half-crazed, staring
vacantly, and with disordered hair, was
seated on the ground near the empty
cradle, the roses, which had lately
ornamented it trodden down and de-








HID IN A CAVE.


stroyed, lying scattered around, all at
once the door opened, and in walked
the Countess.
The wounds of the Count were not
so dangerous as they had at first been
thought. As soon as he was out of
danger, the Countess had commenced
her journey home, by the persuasion
of the Count, joined to the motherly
anxiety of her own heart, in order to
be soon again with her darling child.
She had just alighted from her carriage,
and hastened immediately to the room
where she hoped to embrace her beloved
boy.
Everyone in the room was terrified
at the sight of the Countess. Margaret
uttered a loud cry. God be gracious
to me and to her," she exclaimed. The
Countess saw with terror the deadly
pale faces, the red eyes, Margaret's







THE GRIEF IN THE CASTLE.


despair, the empty cradle. No one
would answer her questions. A thou-
sand fearful apprehensions, a thousand
terrible thoughts, rushed like lightning
through her mind. She trembled for
the life of her child. When at last she
had half-learnt and half-guessed the
story, overwhelmed with grief, she sank
down fainting, and would have fallen
to the ground if they had not hastened
to support her. Oh! my God," she
exclaimed at last, when she recovered
her senses, what a grievous sorrow
hast Thou laid upon me! Ah, my
child, my child, my darling child Oh,
my husband, my dear husband; this
news will give you deeper wounds than
the sword of the enemy! Oh, my
dear good little Henry, where are you
now? Into whose hands have you
fallen ? Oh, if you should grow up







HID IN A CAVE.


among robbers, without instruction or
good teaching, how terrible that would
be Oh, I cannot bear even the
thought of it! I would rather weep
at your grave Then you would be a
beautiful angel before the throne of
God, and I should have the comfort
of seeing you again there. But now
even this greatest comfort is wanting !
Alas! what can, what will become of
you among such men ?" Oh, my
God," she again exclaimed, as she fell
upon her knees, and gazed, with tearful
eyes and clasped hands, towards heaven,
" Oh, thou good God, the only Com-
forter in all trouble my child, it is
true, is torn from my arms; but from
Thy hand he can never be plucked. I
know not in what dark wood, in what
robber's cave, he may be; but Thine
eye sees him wherever he is. I can








THE GRIEF IN THE CASTLE.


teach him nothing good or lovely; but
Thou, and Thou only, canst care for
him. Thou hearest the cry of the
young ravens; oh, hear also the cries of
this child, who is certainly weeping and
longing for his mother. Give to me
and my dear husband grace to bear this
loss. Thou orderest it so; I will yield
my child an offering to Thee, though
with a bleeding, yet a trusting, heart.
I know that this trouble will surely,
under Thy guidance, lead to good."
Thus the sorrowing mother consoled
herself.
But Margaret could not be comforted.
She fell on her knees before the Coun-
tess, and implored her pardon. Ah,"
she said, wringing her hands, I would
willingly shed the last drop of my
blood to save the child."
The Countess pardoned her. Your
B2








HID IN A CAVE.


sincere repentance deserves forgive-
ness," she said. "No harm shall
happen to you. You see now, however,
how wise my orders were; you now
learn what great misery may be caused
by disobedience, giddiness, and too
much desire for amusement. All our
joys in this world are now for ever
gone, like these roses which lie
withered on the ground."
After the Countess had recovered
from her first alarm, and learnt that
the child had only disappeared two
hours ago, she immediately sent a
number of people out to look for him.
One messenger after another returned.
Margaret ran to meet each one, and
wept afresh as soon as she saw
from a distance that there was no
comfort in his looks. At length the
last one returned without having







THE ROBBERS' CAVE.


discovered the least trace of the child,
and Margaret almost cried her eyes
out. By degrees she became quieter,
but she was always very pale, and
moved about like a shadow. Every
one pitied her. At last, one day she
disappeared, and no one knew where
she was gone.


CHAPTER IV.
THE ROBBERS' CAVE.
A oIPsY, a hideous old woman, with
coal black hair and bronzed counte-
nance, had stolen the child. This
woman deceived and robbed silly people
by fortune-telling. With this purpose
she had come formerly to the castle,
and had taken every opportunity to
look well about her. She was in
league with the oldest of the three







HID IN A CAVE.


musicians, and whilst he kept all the
people in the castle in the lower room
with his noisy music, the gipsy had
crept through a little door in the
garden wall, which the gardener's boy
had carelessly left open, into the castle
garden, and up an unfrequented wind-
ing staircase, into the child's room;
had taken the child, and whatever else
she could hastily lay hold of, and had
escaped as quickly as possible through
the garden into the nearest wood.
There she hid herself with the child
till it was quite dark. In the night
she got up and carried the child
further, choosing the most lonely and
secret paths. She had provided herself
with sufficient food. At the approach
of evening she hid herself again in a
thick copse, or among the corn. In
this way she travelled many miles, till






































































rHE (,NPs', _TEAUj~c, HENRI,


/ 2.




This page contains no text.





THE ROBBERS' CAVE.


she arrived among the mountains.
Here there was a dismal cave, deep
under the earth, which once was the
opening of a now half-filled-up mine.
The entrance to it was so well con-
cealed by fragments of rock and thick
thorn bushes that it was not easy to
find. After the gipsy had groped for
some time among the stones, thorn
bushes, and brambles, she came to an
iron door, of which she had the key.
She opened the door, and after nearly
an hour's walk she came to the cave.
This was the abode of the robbers.
Here they hid themselves to be safe
from justice. Here they kept their
stolen goods in great chests: a
quantity of beautiful clothes and costly
things, gold and silver, precious stones
and pearls. When the gipsy entered
with the child, the robbers, who were







HID IN A CAVE.


grim-looking men, with defiant coun-
tenances and rough beards, were seated
drinking, smoking, and playing cards.
They were much pleased when they
learnt that this child was the young
Count Henry of Eichenfels, and they
praised the gipsy very much for her
successful theft. They had long wished
to get into their power the child of
such noble parents.
"You have managed it beautifully,
old granny !" said the chief of the
robbers. "Now we are quite safe.
Should any one of us be taken prisoner,
and any harm be intended to him, we
will threaten to put this child to a
terrible death; then they will certainly
spare our comrade, or perhaps let him
go.
The chief commanded the gipsy,
who cooked for the robbers, to take







THE ROBBERS' CAVE.


good care of the child, so that it might
be sure to live.
In this dreadful cave the child
arrived at an age of understanding,
and learnt to speak. The memories of
his first childhood disappeared. He
knew nothing of the sun, the moon,
or the beautiful earth that God had
made. No ray of daylight entered
this frightful dwelling. Only a lamp,
which burnt day and night, hung from
the dark sooty vault of the cave, and
lighted with its dismal red glimmer
the rocky walls. There was no want
of food. The robbers brought bread,
meat, vegetables, and especially such
provisions as they could easily keep,
and also plenty of wine. A great cask
of water, which stood in a corner of
the cave, and which they re-filled from
time to time, served instead of a well







HID IN A CAVE.


in this underground dwelling. But as
they had to fetch the water from some
distance, the gipsy used it very
sparingly, and was very sharp with
the child in insisting that he should
always turn the cock firmly. Rushes
spread on the ground, and covered with
pretty carpets, served the robbers for
a bed.
The gipsy did not let the little one
want for anything. She gave him
plenty to eat, but she taught him
nothing good. He did not learn to
read or write, and learnt nothing about
God from these wicked men. There
was only one among the robbers, called
William, who interested himself about
the child. He was a young man, the
son of respectable people. The love of
gaming had reduced him to this dread-
ful way of living. He brought the







THE ROBBERS' CAVE.


child, whenever he returned, something
to amuse him, and to help him to while
away the time. He made him a pre-
sent of wooden figures, prettily painted;
a sheepfold, with many sheep, and a
shepherd and shepherdess; a garden
with all sorts of trees, from which
hung red and yellow fruits; a little
looking-glass, and other toys for chil-
dren. Once he brought him a flute,
and taught him to play a little tune
upon it. Another time he brought him
a bunch of painted flowers, and taught
him how to cut out flowers for himself
from paper, to join them together, and
to paint them different colours. The
little child employed himself for many
hours in this way; but the one of all
his playthings which the child loved
best, was a miniature of his mother,
which the gipsy had carried away from







HID IN A CAVE.


the castle. It was extremely beau-
tiful, and very well painted, set in
gold and crystal, and surrounded with
diamonds. But the gipsy only allowed
him to have it now and then, when she
was in a good humour.
William often looked at the picture,
thought of his own mother, and secretly
wiped away a tear. Poor child," he
said to himself, it was cruel to tear
you from the arms of such a mother.
Oh, how different it would have been
for you with her than in this terrible
abode! And your good mother, how
she must weep for you! Oh, if I could
restore you to her arms, how willingly
would I do it! But I am myself a
prisoner here! A thousand times I
would have run away if my pretended
friends would have trusted me, and not
watched me so closely!" He held








HENRY'S ESCAPE.


many conversations with the child, and
told him many things that pleased the
little one and awakened his under-
standing; but he dared not speak to
him of God and eternity; the other
robbers would not have allowed that,
for they dreaded above all things to
have their consciences aroused.


CHAPTER V.
HENRY' S ESCAPE.
As the boy grew older, he became very
curious to know where the men went.
He often begged them to take him
with them; but they always refused
him, shortly and roughly, or put him
off to another time.
One night they had again gone out
to rob. The old gipsy, who could not
walk well now, and always remained







HID IN A CAVE.


behind, was a melancholy companion
to the lively boy. She was always
very peevish, and sat, on account of
her weak eyes, often for hours behind
a green shade, mending old linen or
counting money without speaking a
word, and then slept and snored for
hours together.
Once, when she was fast asleep, the
boy took courage, lighted a candle,
went into the dark passage through
which the robbers always departed,
walked on further and further, and at
last came to the iron door. He could
not succeed in opening it, for it was
locked with a great key. He turned
sorrowfully back. But the passage
through which he had come had many
narrow passages leading from it,
through which one might wander for
hours under the earth. The boy








HENRY'S ESCAPE.


entered the first passage he saw, as he
returned. After he had been walking
for a long time, and his candle was
burnt out, it appeared to him as if he
saw a light burning in the distance.
Full of curiosity, he went towards it.
The streaming red light increased in
size, and at last became so large that it
appeared to him like a fiery figure
standing before him. He continued to
advance courageously towards it, and
stood at length at an opening in the
rock, through which the rays of morn-
ing shone, and from which one could
easily step out into the open air, and
with one bound the delighted boy
was out.
No words can express what he felt
as he escaped from the dark under-
ground dwelling, and for the first time
stood in a beautiful country, full of








HID IN A CAVE.


wood-covered hills, beneath God's
lovely blue heaven. It was a beau-
tiful summer's morning; the sun had
just risen, the morning sky glowed
with light, and over wood and moun-
tain hovered a rosy mist; the ground
was covered everywhere with grass and
flowers; the birds were singing. In
the valley below was a clear lake, in
which the morning-tints and the green
tops of the surrounding hills were re-
flected with wonderful distinctness.
The boy was beside himself with
astonishment; it seemed to him as if
he had just awoke from a long deep
sleep. He gazed bewildered around,
and for a long time could find no
words to express his astonishment. At
length he exclaimed, Where am I?
What a large place! Oh, how beau-
tiful, how grand everything is !" And







HENRY S ESCAPE.


then he looked again at a tall oak, or
a rock covered with green fir-trees,
or the clear lake, or a wild-rose bush,
with its gay flowers.
Presently the sun just peeped over a
distant fir-clad hill, amid golden clouds.
The child gazed at it with fixed eyes.
It appeared to him as if a fire was
flaming before him, and he really
thought the clouds began to burn. He
looked without moving, till at length
the sun rose over the bill, round, beau-
tiful, and golden, and veiled by a light
morning mist. What is that ? what
a wonderful light! cried the boy, and
stood in astonishment looking at it
with outstretched arms, till at last,
blinded by the powerful light, he was
forced to turn away his eyes.
Now he went a little further; but
still did not dare to go far, for fear
c







HID IN A CAVE.


of spoiling the beautiful flowers with
which the ground was covered. All
at once he perceived a young lamb
lying under a rose bush. Ah, a lamb!
a lamb !" he cried, joyfully. He ran
towards it, and took hold of it. The
lamb got up and bleated. The child
shrank back frightened. What is
that ? he cried. It is alive It can
walk! It has a voice. Mine are all
dumb, and never move. What a
wonder! Who has given it life ?"
He wished to talk with the lamb; he
asked the little animal all sorts of
questions, and at last got quite angry
because it only answered with the same
incomprehensible cry.
Presently a shepherd's boy came up,
a pleasant-looking youth with rosy
cheeks and golden hair. He had missed
the lamb, and was looking for it. He






























































" Ah! a lamb, a lamb."


page 34+




This page contains no text.





HENRY S ESCAPE.


had already seen the child, and did not
know what to make of him. At the
first sight of the shepherd the child
was frightened; but when he spoke
kindly to him, the boy took courage.
"Oh, how beautiful you are," he said
to the young shepherd. "Tell me,"
he continued, as he pointed to the sky
and the earth, "does all this great big
cave belong to you ? May not I stay
with you and your lamb ? "
The shepherd did not understand
the child at first, and thought he must
be mad. He asked him how he got
there. When the child said he had
crawled up out of the ground, and
then related about the old woman and
the bearded men, the shepherd lad felt
uncomfortable and alarmed. However,
full of compassion, he took the boy in
one arm, seized the lamb with the
c2








HID IN A CAVE.


other, and ran away as fast as if the
robbers were pursuing him.


CHAPTER VI.
FATHER MENRAD.
THERE lived among the mountains a
very worthy old man, eighty years of
age, who, on account of his wisdom
and piety, was well known in those
parts by the name of Father Menrad.
The shepherd lad decided on taking
the child he had found to him. The
hermitage, which was not far off, was
on the side of a hill near the lake, and
was like a little paradise. It stood,
covered with vine leaves and a mossy
thatched roof, between shady fruit
trees, in the midst of a garden full of
the most beautiful flowers and vege-
tables. Behind the little hut there








FATHER MENRAD.


was a vineyard, and on one side a
small corn-field lay along the hill.
Wherever there was a little space
between the rocks, stood either a tree
bearing beautiful fruit, or a bush
covered with delicious berries. Upon
a rock which overhung the lake the
little chapel reared its spire, some
steps cut in the rock leading to it.
When the youth opened the latticed
gate, and came into the garden with
the child, the worthy old man was
seated on a wooden bench under an
apple tree, from whence there was a
lovely view over the lake. A great
book, which he was thoughtfully
reading, lay on the table before him.
His head was bald, with a fringe of
snow-white hair, and he had a long
white beard, but his cheeks were ruddy
as those of a youth.








HID IN A CAVE.


With true courtesy he got up,
greeted them both, and listened to
the story of the shepherd lad with
kind attention, asked the child his
name, and, filled with pity, took him
in his arms. He soon guessed that
the boy had been stolen from his
parents. Leave the little one with
me," he said to the youth, "and
for the present do not tell any one
about it. I hope to find his parents;
meanwhile, he will be safest from the
robbers here. They avoid my dwelling
as they would fire. Gold and silver
are not to be found here; and good
counsel and holy instruction, which are
worth more than gold and silver, they
hate." To the child he said, You
are welcome, dear Henry; I will be
your father, and take care of you till
I can restore you to your own father








THE PICTURE.


and mother. Call me, henceforth,
Father."
Then the old man regaled his guests
with bread and milk. When the shep-
herd lad was refreshed, he took his
crook to return to his flock. The
child did not like that. He cried,
and held him by his clothes. But
the youth promised to come soon
again, and made him a present of the
lamb; then he was satisfied, and
showed great delight at the gift, which
in his eyes was of untold value.


CHAPTER VII.
THE PICTURE.
WHEN the young shepherd was gone,
the compassionate old man placed the
little boy on the bench beside him, in
order to converse with him. Do you







HID IN A CAVE.


know nothing, dear Henry," he said,
" of your father and mother ? "
Oh, yes," said Henry, "I have a
beautiful mother-here, in my pocket.
There! look !" He drew out the
miniature which he had concealed,
and which was enclosed in a pretty
case of red morocco leather. The poor
child had never before seen the picture
of his mother by daylight. He was
surprised at the beauty of it, and the
glitter of the diamonds that surrounded
it dazzled him.
"How bright it is here !" he said.
"Tell me," he continued, and pointed
to the sun, who lighted that beautiful
lamp that makes everything look so
clear? I cannot look at it, it is so
bright. The one in our cave was very
dark and dismal. And why does it go
up higher and higher ? When I first








THE PICTURE.


saw it, it was behind the trees, and in
a short time it had got up so high that
I should not have been able to reach
it if I had stood on the highest tree.
How is it made, that it moves of itself?
I do not see a cord to it anywhere.
What moves it ? and who gets up to it
to put in fresh oil ? "
Father Menrad told him that this
great light was called the sun, and that
it had existed already a thousand times
longer than little Henry, and continued
to move and to burn in this way with-
out wanting a drop of oil.
I don't understand that," said
Henry. What wonderfully pretty
flowers you have," he began again,
jumping up, and running to the little
flower beds, each one of which was like
a basket of flowers. Oh, what lovely
red, and blue, and yellow they are







HID IN A CAVE.


painted; and all the countless little
leaves so beautifully cut out! What
are all these leaves made of? It is
not paper, nor even silk. Tell me, did
you make all these flowers ? It must
have taken you a long time. There
are so many tiny little pieces. You
must have needed fine scissors and
sharp eyes. I have made pretty
flowers, but I cannot make them so
pretty as these."
Menrad told him that no man could
make such pretty flowers, they had
come up out of the earth.
Henry would not believe that. "That
cannot be," he said; "I would rather
believe you made them."
The old man shewed the boy the
pretty little seed-vessel of the poppy
flower; shook into his hand the tiny
round seeds, and told him that in each







THE PICTURE.


little seed were hidden a number of
such large purple-red flowers, which
came out of it when the seed was put
in the ground; and in like manner
all other flowers came out of seeds.
The boy looked at the old man to
see if he was in earnest, and said,
"Can such a beautiful large flower
come out of such a tiny ball? Then
a little seed must be much better made
than the best gold watch."
That it certainly is," replied
Menrad.
"But who made the little seed?"
asked the child. "It seems to me it
would be easier to make all these
flowers than one seed like this."
He looked again at the flowers, went
from one bed to another, and could not
look at them enough. How hot this
lamp is," he cried. "It is so far off,







HID IN A CAVE.


and yet it makes me so warm! It is a
wonderful light!"
Menrad led the child again under
the apple tree, which shaded the seat
by the table pleasantly.
It is nice and cool here," said
Henry, as he looked up at the apple tree.
" The tree is just like a green shade;
which protects us against the light and
the heat too. How large it is, and
how many thousand leaves it has!
The stem seems to be made out of
wood. But I don't think you could
have made all these flowers and trees.
It would have been too much work for
you!"











CHAPTER VIII.


GOOD THINGS.
THE old man now went into the hut to
prepare the mid-day meal. First he
brought bread and milk, then some
butter and honey for the boy, and a
nice little basketfull of the most beau-
tiful apples; and for himself roots
and vegetables, a large golden-yellow
melon, and some red wine in a clear
glass bottle.
Henry enjoyed it much, and said to
the old man, Where do you get all
those good things ? Do you go out to
rob sometimes ? "
Father Menrad explained to him,
whilst they were dining, how wonder-
fully everything grew. Look," said
he, as he took up an apple to peel and
divide for Henry, "I got this apple







HID IN A CAVE.


from this tree. From the slender
boughs of the tree come, from time
to time, whole baskets full of such
beautiful apples."
Is that really true ?" asked Henry,
as he looked attentively at Menrad.
Father Menrad took the boy upon
his arm, bent down a bough, and
showed him the little green apples.
" Do you see," he said, how they
come out of the little twigs ? They
will grow larger and larger, and at last
as large, and as beautifully red and
yellow, as those in the basket. This
tree itself," he continued, as he divided
the apple, came from such a little
seed as this which hangs on the knife.
I knew this tree when it was a little
seed. In every such seed lies hidden
a tree. From one seed might be
obtained more apples than the world







GOOD THINGS.


could hold, or than a man could count
if he lived a thousand years."
This bread also comes from such
little seeds," continued Menrad, as
he showed the boy some wheat he had
brought from the hut. "It is the
same as with the apple pips and the
flower seeds. From every such grain
of wheat many thousand loaves of
bread such as this on the table might
be procured." Menrad described to
him in detail how this could be, and
pointed, as he spoke, to the rich corn-
field, where, a little time since, only
dry earth was to be seen. Henry ran
thither, and found, to his great delight,
little grains in every ear of wheat.
"It is the same with all the plants,"
said Father Menrad, which you see
around you. The grass beneath your
feet, the blooming rose-bushes yonder,








HID IN A CAVE.


the countless ears of corn, and the
vines which cover the hut and the hill
behind, the great oaks and fir-trees
upon the mountain, and the little moss
upon the stem of the apple-tree, grew
from such little seeds. All that you
see here on the table, milk and butter,
which come from grass; honey, which
is prepared from the flowers ; the
nourishing bread and strengthening
wine, all the vegetables and roots and
fruits, the cresses, the radishes, the fine
large melons, even the boughs out of
which these neat little fruit baskets
are made, the wood out of which plates
and cups are formed, even the table
and bench-we have to thank the little
seeds for them all. I have only to put
them into the ground in order to raise
out of the earth, here an apple-tree,
there a hundred thousand ears of corn,








THE WONDERS OF THE EARTH. 49

and thus my abode, which formerly
was a wilderness, is ornamented with
all that is lovely, and I have abund-
ance of the necessaries of life."
To the boy all this was very won-
derful. He had before looked with
wonder at everything, and he now
listened with the greatest astonish-
ment to the account of the hermit.


CHAPTER IX.
THE WONDERS OF THE EARTH.
THE sun began to go down, and the
flower-beds lay in shade. Some of the
flowers which Menrad especially loved
were rather dried up by the sun's heat.
Though he hoped it would soon rain,
he thought it prudent to give his
pet flowers some water. He took his
watering-pot, and leading the boy by








RID IN A CAVE.


the hand, went to the spring, which
flowed plentifully from the moss-
covered rock. Henry clapped his
hands in astonishment. What a
quantity of water," he cried, "comes
out of the rock. Every moment I
think it must stop, and yet it still con-
tinues to pour out. Who has put so
much water in, and where do they get
water enough to fill it ? You should
shut up the opening, and take care of
the water, or it will all run away."
Menrad told him that this water
had been flowing without ceasing ever
since the sun shone, that it never
diminished, and never needed re-filling.
He told him that the whole lake,
which Henry had mistaken for an
enormous looking-glass, was nothing
else than water. This was a new
wonder for the child.








THE WONDERS OF THE EARTH. 51

Menrad returned with his full can,
and began to water the flowers.
Ah, what are you doing?" said
Henry. You will spoil your flowers.
All the colours will go away."
Menrad smiled, and said that flowers
and vegetables, corn and vines, bushes
and trees, needed water as much as
men needed something to drink.
But then," said Henry, who can
bring them all water enough? Who
climbs up and waters the trees upon
the top of that high mountain ?"
Menrad replied, That has been
provided for. You will perhaps see
how, sooner than you expect," he
continued, as he looked at the
clouds.
In a short time a great cloud
gathered over the mountains, and it
began to rain, at first softly, but soon
n 2







HID IN A CAVE.


very hard. This was a wonderful
phenomenon to Henry.
That is a good arrangement," he
said; "it saves a great deal of labour.
The water falls so prettily in thousands
of little drops, as if it came out of a
watering-pot. But who sends the
clouds, as you call these wonderful
things ? Who carried the water up so
high ? How is it that clouds float so
easily above, apd do not fall down ?"
You shall hear all about it," said
Menrad.
The child watched the clouds for a
long time, till they passed away, and
the sky became clear and blue again.
Amid wonder and pleasure the day
appeared to the boy to pass away
very quickly. A hundred things which
other people, from habit, let pass with-
out notice-a green and gold beetle







THE WONDERS OF THE EARTH. 53

resting upon a rose leaf, a snail that
crawled up the stem of the tree after
the rain, the sparkling drops which
hung like diamonds from the leaves;
a linnet singing its cheerful evening
song on a branch, and then hopping
merrily from bough to bough; the
hermit's goats, which towards evening
returned from the mountains-were
all objects of great wonder to the
child, and gave rise to many questions
and answers.
At length the sun went down
behind the lake. Oh, alas!" cried
Henry, in alarm, "the sun lamp has
plunged into the water; it will be put
out, and all our pleasure will be at an
end! If we were to light a lamp it
would be of very little use to us in
this large room."
Father Menrad calmed him. "Do







HID IN A CAVE.


not be afraid," said he. "We shall
soon go to sleep now; then we shall
want no light. Whilst we are asleep
the sun will come again, on the oppo-
site side, between those mountains
yonder. Thus it moves continually
in a circle, without stopping for a
moment, and lights and warms every-
thing."


CHAPTER X.
WHO MADE THEM ?
HENRY returned to his former ques-
tions, which the old man had pur-
posely not answered, and this had still
more increased the boy's curiosity.
How is it," he asked again, that
the sun always moves ? And who built
this great beautiful dome, and painted
it such a pretty blue ? Who shut up







WHO MADE THEM ?


so much water in those rocks, that it
flows without ceasing? Who guides
the clouds, that they float so freely
in the air, and water all the plants
with so many sparkling drops ? Who
teaches the birds, without a flute, to
sing such pretty songs ? Who hid the
flowers and trees in such little seeds,
that they come up in the places where
we wish for them, and cover the earth
on all sides with a carpet of grass and
flowers, and make us so many beau-
tiful presents ? Who has done all this
so well?"
"Then you really think," said
Father Menrad, "that somebody must
have made all this beautiful arrange-
ment?"
Oh, yes," said Henry, "it certainly
must be so. Whoever doubted that
must be very stupid. The men in the







HID IN A CAVE.


cave had to work a long time if they
only wished to enlarge it a little.
Once the cave nearly fell in, and they
had a great deal of trouble to prop it
up. And for this great dome there is
not a single pillar to be seen! Our
lamp in the cave did not light itself;
and, if we did not wish to sit in the
dark, we had to take great care, and
often pour in fresh oil. And the
water-barrel had to be re-filled fre-
quently, lest we should suffer from
thirst. I know well, too, what trouble
it cost to cut out a single flower, and
what a correct eye was required. I
can well understand that all these
things we see around us could not be
made by men's hands. But then I
want to know who it is that has made
all this."
Now that the boy was so much







WHO MADE THEM ?


interested by the greatness, beauty,
and wise arrangement of the world,
and was burning with curiosity to
know who that great benefactor could
be from whom it all proceeded, the
moment was come when the worthy
old man could speak to the boy of
God, of His almightiness, His wisdom,
and His goodness. With deep reve-
rence, with a trembling voice and
tearful eyes, the old man said that
Henry was right; that there was One
who had made all these things, and
that this almighty, all-wise, all-good
being, who had created all things, and
had also given life to men, was called
God, our dear Father in heaven.
The boy had been amazed that
morning when, for the first time, he
saw the sun rise and gild everything
with its bright rays, but he was now







IIID IN A CAVE.


still more astonished. The thought of
God rose like a sun in his mind, with
light and warmth; the whole world
about him appeared in a light of beauty
and love, as a place filled with the
countless mercies of a tender Father.
"Yes, dear child," continued Men-
rad, as he observed the emotion of the
boy, it is God who has made all that
you see. He formed that beautiful
blue vault which we call heaven. IHe
kindled the sun, and guides its course;
it not only displays to us His wonderful
works, and lights us in our occupations,
but by its warm rays the fruit is
ripened and fitted for food. He makes
the water to spring plentifully from the
ground, and to drop down from the
clouds, that we may have enough to
drink, and that everything may be
refreshed. He spreads beneath our







WHO MADE THEM ?


feet the many-coloured carpet of grass
and flowers. It is He who gives to the
flowers their colour and scent. From
the rough clods of earth he gives us
plenty of bread, and from the hills He
makes the delicious wine to flow forth.
He loads the boughs of the trees with
fruit of all sorts; in the green valleys
He makes brooks of milk to flow, and
the rocks and hollow trees drop with
honey. He created the tree which
cools us with its shade, and warms
us with its wood. He teaches the
birds the songs with which they
delight us. He clothes the lamb that
lies at your feet with the soft wool,
from which your coat and mine are
made. He makes everything so beau-
tiful that we may have pleasure in His
works, and love Him, and at last may
come to Him in a still more beautiful







RID IN A CAVE.


world than you see here, and where,
with Him, we shall have still greater
pleasures. And though we cannot see
Him now, He sees us everywhere, and
hears all our words, and even knows
our thoughts. We can talk with Him
every moment. He orders everything
for us. It was He who rescued you
from that cave, and caused you to be
brought here to me. He is our great
Benefactor, our best Friend, our most
loving Father."
Henry listened to the pious old man
with the greatest attention, and with
deep emotion, and could not take his
eyes off him. As they talked, night
came on without the child's remarking
it. The moon, which till now had
appeared like a little cloud hardly
visible in the sky, shone forth with
a clear light, and hung high up over








iIWHO MADE THEM ?


the lake, surrounded by countless
twinkling stars. The lake shone like
a mirror, and one could fancy one saw
in it a second heaven with its moon
and stars. Not a leaf moved on the
trees; perfect stillness reigned. A
feeling arose in Henry's heart which
he had never before experienced, the
feeling of devotion and prayer, and of
the nearness of God. The old man
folded his hands and looked towards
heaven, and prayed before the boy;
and then the child too raised his little
hands for the first time towards heaven,
and repeated each word after him.
The tears flowed freely over the boy's
cheeks at the thought that that God,
whom till now he had not known,
should have shown him so much kind-
ness. When the old man had finished
his prayer, to his great joy Henry, of








HID IN A CAVE.


his own accord, continued, "I thank
Thee also, dear God, that Thou hast
set me free from that dark cave, and
hast brought me to this good man,
who has told me so many beautiful
and joyful things about Thee."
Father Menrad now took the boy by
the hand, and led him into the hut.
Here he made him a couch of soft
moss, over which he spread a carpet,
and covered the child with his own
cloak.


CHAPTER XI.
THE JOURNEY.
FATHER MENRAD kept the boy with
him all the summer, in order to in-
struct him better, and to cure him of
many bad habits and expressions
which he had learnt from his former








THE JOURNEY.


wicked companions. He also thought
that the little one would improve with
wholesome food and the fresh moun-
tain air, for he had become very pale
from living so long under ground; and
his parents would then have greater
pleasure in him. He soon began to
bloom again, like a rose in the rays of
the morning sun.
Towards the middle of the autumn,
Father Menrad, who had formerly
come from some distance, and knew
many towns, resolved to take his
pilgrim's staff and again return among
men in order to look for the parents
of the child. He had engaged that
the father of the lad who had brought
him the boy, a sensible and pious
farmer, who lived deep amid the
mountains, should take care of the
child till he returned to fetch him.








HID IN A CAVE.


In the first place, he meant to take
little Henry there.
One beautiful, pleasant autumn
morning, when the morning star had
scarcely risen, he woke the child, went
with him to the chapel, and offered
up an earnest prayer that God would
bless this journey. After they had had
some breakfast, and provided them-
selves with food for the day, Menrad
commenced his journey, Henry accom-
panying him with delight. They went
by lonely paths, only used by shepherds
and chamois-hunters. Towards mid-
day they came to a cliff, upon which
some goats were climbing high above
them. They sat down in the shade to
rest, and to take their mid-day meal.
The goatherd's boy came up to kiss the
hand of the worthy Father Menrad.
Little Henry sprang up, and cried out








THE JOURNEY.


in astonishment, See! a little man
like me Oh, that is delightful, I did
not know there were any more little
men. I thought I was the only one
in the world. Oh, you will go with
us, won't you?" The lad offered to
carry Father Menrad's knapsack. They
continued their journey together, and
Henry was so much pleased with
talking to the lad that he hardly
cared for anything else. At length
they came to a little green valley
between high cliffs, where a flock of
sheep were feeding, which belonged to
the very man to whose house Menrad
was going. Henry was greatly de-
lighted with two lambs, only a few
days old, and stroked them, and called
them all sorts of endearing names.
Meanwhile the old man was looking
for the shepherd. On one side, under








IIID IN A CAVE.


an overhanging rock, out of which a
little spring issued, he saw a shepherd
girl sitting; in one hand a shepherd's
crook, and in the other, to his surprise,
a book, which she seemed to be atten-
tively reading. He went up to her.
She was dressed in white, and had on
a green hat. Her countenance was
very gentle, and her manner was quiet
and melancholy. She had never seen
Father Menrad, but she knew him
immediately, having heard him de-
scribed; and she got up and greeted
him in a kind and trustful way.
Menrad said to her, You cannot
have tended these flocks long. When
I saw the man who owns them, a short
time ago, he said nothing to me about
you."
She replied that she had kept sheep
for many years among the hills, but








THE JOURNEY.


she had only entered her present ser-
vice three days ago.
"Where do you come from," he
said, and why do you look so sad ? "
The girl burst into tears. "Alas!"
she said, I came from a great
distance. An act of youthful thought-
lessness has plunged me into the
greatest unhappiness. I was in ser-
vice with a very worthy master and
mistress. Out of thoughtlessness I
left their dear only child for a few
moments alone. It was taken away
by robbers. I could no longer stay
with my good mistress and see her
sorrow. I was so miserable; and
therefore I took refuge among the
hills. I live here in loneliness, and
pray daily to God that he would
relieve the misery I have caused
would restore the child, and turn his
E2








HID IN A CAVE.


mother's indescribable grief into joy.
God will surely have pity on my tears,
which flow daily in His sight amid
these rocks!"
Father Menrad said, with emotion in
his voice, "I think God has this
moment fulfilled your prayer." He
drew out the picture of Henry's
mother, which he had brought with
him in order more easily to discover
her, showed it to the young woman,
and asked, "Do you know this pic-
ture ?"
The young woman cried aloud, with
alarm and joy, "That is the likeness
of the Countess of Eichenfels, the
mother of the stolen child !"
On hearing the cry of the young
woman little Henry came running up.
He looked at the new countenance
with fixed eyes, and said with pity,




This page contains no text.





















































" Look! this is the child.


page 69.







THE JOURNEY.


"Why do you cry? What do you
want? Perhaps you are hungry.
Look, here is some bread and two
apples Take them, and eat."
Menrad meanwhile said to the
young woman, Look! this is the
child that was stolen at the same time
with the picture."
The young woman felt as if her
heart would break for joy. She fell
upon her knees, and cried to heaven,
with uplifted hands: "Oh, good and
merciful God, Thou hast heard the
prayer that I offered to Thee day and
night. Oh, graciously receive my
thanks. Thou canst see my thoughts
though I cannot express them." Then,
weeping for joy, she embraced little
Henry. Thank God, dearest Henry,
that He has restored you to us. Is it
really you, or am I dreaming? Yes,







HID IN A CAVE.


it is you. You are as like your father
as one dewdrop to another. Oh, how
will your mother rejoice. Oh, rejoice
yourself, for we are going to your
father and mother !"
Father Menrad wiped away a tear,
and said, "God be praised! Thy
gracious providence has watched over
this child. Thou hast dried the tears
of this young woman, who continually
wept before Thee. Thou restorest to
worthy parents their dearly-beloved
child. Thou hast crowned my first
steps with blessing, and spared me in
my old age a long search. For ever be
praised Thy mercy and compassion."
Menrad now went with Henry and
Margaret to the cottage of the worthy
farmer, which was only about half-an-
hour distant. The little goatherd
who had carried Menrad's knapsack,







THE JOURNEY.


handed it over to Margaret, and under-
took in the meanwhile to look after
her sheep.
"Are these my father and mother ?"
asked Henry, when the farmer and his
wife kindly met them at the door of
their house; and he was very sorry
when he heard they were not.
"They are so kind," said he; my
father and mother could not be
kinder. I should be very happy to
stay with them."
Menrad, Henry, and Margaret par-
took of some food here; and then,
guided by the shepherd lad, the son
of the good farmer, continued their
journey.
Towards evening they descended
from the mountains into a wide valley,
and took up their night's lodging in
a large village. At the dawn of day







HID IN A CAVE.


they proceeded in a farmer's wagon,
hoping to reach Eichenfels in about
three days. -


CHAPTER XII.
THE SOLDIERS.
THE first day all went well on their
journey. The travelling, the many
places, castles, and villages which they
passed greatly pleased little Henry;
and whenever he saw a fine castle upon
a distant mountain, he asked if that
was not Eichenfels.
Towards evening of the next day
they came to a thick forest. The road
was so bad they could hardly get
along. Just at this time a terrible
storm- came on, and the rain fell in
torrents. Night came on, and it was
very dark. They were compelled to







THE SOLDIERS.


pass the night in an inn in the midst
of the forest, which had a very bad
character on account of the robberies
often committed there. However, they
took their supper here, and retired
soon to rest, in order to be able to rise
very early in the morning.
Tired with their journey, they all
soon fell fast asleep, except Father
Menrad, who had taken little Henry
into his room, and who remained up,
and towards midnight was kneeling
at the table, on which a candle burnt,
engaged in reading and prayer.
Suddenly there arose a great noise
before the house. The rough voices of
many men were heard. They knocked
loudly at the doors and window-
shutters. Every one in the house woke
up in a fright. Father Menrad came
out of his room.






HID IN A CAVE.


"Alas!" cried Margaret to him, "I
am afraid they are robbers, and that
they will take the young Count away
from us again."
Menrad told her to be silent, and
went down. The people of the house
seemed also very much frightened, and
said they were afraid to open the door.
The men outside knocked loudly, and
threatened to break in the door.
Menrad, who was a brave man, said,
"The door cannot protect us, but God
will be our shield and protector. We
are all in His hand. Let us see
whether we cannot deal with these
men in an amicable way."
He opened the door. Four strong,
armed, and bearded men walked boldly
in, one of them carrying a lighted
torch.
We must see all the rooms in this







THE SOLDIERS.


house," said they. Our chief will
follow immediately, with many more
people, and the whole house must be
at his disposal."
Father Menrad inquired who their
chief was, and their answer delighted
as much as it astonished him. It was
Count Frederick of Eichenfels, Henry's
father.
The Count's followers related that,
though he had been badly wounded,
he had recovered, and would not leave
the army, but remained with it till
peace was made. Peace was now con-
cluded, and the Count was on his way
home, with all those of his people who
had not fallen on the Turkish frontiers.
The news that peace was made filled
them all with joy. Every one in
the house hastened to welcome the
warriors. They became very friendly







HID IN A CAVE.


and civil, and excused their former rough
conduct by the badness of the weather.
"In such a terrible storm of wind
and rain," they said, "a soldier even
might be pardoned if he was not
willing to be kept long waiting at
midnight at the door of a house."
They also said they had lost their
way in the forest, and would certainly
not have found the house if the light
which was burning had not served to
guide them, and helped them to regain
the right way.
This little circumstance, that the
candle, by which Menrad was praying
so late, guided the Count here, was
very comforting to the pious old man,
who was accustomed to trace in every-
thing the hand of Providence; and he
heartily thanked God for this happy
result.










CHAPTER XI1,
YOUR FATHER IS HERE.
PRESENTLY the Count arrived, a tall,
fine-looking man, with a very noble
countenance, and winning, gentle
manners. He immediately took Father
Menrad into his room, made him sit
down, desired some of his own wine
to be brought, gave the first glass to
the old man, drank his health, and
made him touch glasses after the old
German fashion.
"Welcome, with all my heart,
worthy father !" said the Count.
"After such a journey, and in such
stormy weather, it is pleasant to be
housed so warmly. But the sight of
your good, true-hearted countenance is
still pleasanter to me, and does my
heart good. I must at once open my







HID IN A CAVE.


whole heart to you. My people are, as
you see, much delighted at returning
home after so many bloody encounters.
But I, their leader, as so often happens
in this world, am the only sad one
amongst them. I fear all is not so
well at my house as I could wish. It
is true my wife is well, but I am in
great trouble about my only son. My
wife for a long time past has given me
no distinct news of him, and in her
last letter she told me I should not see
him again in this world. You are
acquainted with many people, Father
Menrad, for you were once a brave
soldier yourself. You are now on a
journey, and have perhaps come from
some distance; do you know anything
of how matters are in Eichenfels ? If
you cannot give me any good news, at
least give me some consolation."








YOUR FATHER IS HERE.


Father Menrad answered, with de-
light in his face, "I can give you the very
best news. Your son is well, and the
most charming boy I have ever seen."
"You know him ?" cried the Count,
eagerly.
"Very well," said Menrad; whilst
you were in the field many things have
befallen the child." Menrad related
to the astonished Count all that he
knew of the child's history. He showed
him, in confirmation, the likeness of
the Countess.
Yes, that is herself, as like as life,"
said the Count. "Will she now, though,
look as blooming? Ah, poor thing,
she has suffered very much! But
where is the boy now ?"
Here, in this house," said Menrad.
Here, in this house !" cried the
Count, and jumped up, overturning his








HID IN A CAVE.


chair in his haste. Oh I why did
not you tell me this directly ? Take
me to him at once."
Menrad took up the candle, and the
Count followed him into the room
where his son was in bed. The little
one slept the sleep of innocence, and
looked as lovely as an angel. The
Count could not look at him enough.
The tears came into his eyes.
When I went to the camp," said
he, "he was but a little baby, and now
he is a beautiful boy. Oh, my dear
good wife, now for the first time I
understand your letters, and thank you
for the kindness with which you have
spared me a dreadful sorrow. Henry,
dearest Henry," he cried, and took the
boy by the hand, and softly kissed him,
" wake up, and see your father is here !"
Little Henry opened his eyes, stared







YOUR FATHER IS HERE.


at his father, and could not immediately
awake.
"Are you my father?" at length he
said, joyfully, and with the pleasantest
smile. Welcome, dearest father. Is
my mother with you?"
The Count took the little one in his
arms, and wept tears of joy.
God's merciful providence has
wonderfully preserved you, dear child,"
he said. I cannot thank Him enough
that He has restored you to me."
"Nor I," said Henry. "Oh, how
good God is. He is so loving and
kind toward us, in giving us such
great pleasure."
The Count was highly delighted,
and, when the boy was quite awake
and brisk, was indescribably pleased
with his simple, lively questions and
answers.







HID IN A CAVE.


Oh! Menrad," he said, What
thanks I owe you My whole domains
would be too little to reward you for
the care you have taken of my child."
Margaret had meanwhile come into
the room, and stood trembling in the
distance.
The Count greeted her kindly, held
out his hand, and spoke encouragingly
to her.
"But the robbers," he said, with
great indignation, shall pay heavily
for their misdeeds."
He gave orders to the bravest of his
people, that very night, to seek them
out in their hiding-place, and to bring
them prisoners to Eichenfels.
Then he conversed again with his
son, and would have remained with
him the whole night if Father Menrad
had not reminded him that they all







THE JOY OF THE COUNTESS. 83

needed sleep, in order on the morrow
to enter Eichenfels fresh and in good
spirits.


CHAPTER XIV.
THIE JOY OF THE COUNTESS.
THE good Countess was living at this
time in her castle at Eichenfels, in
great affliction. She had just heard
that peace was made, and she hoped
soon to see her husband again. But
at the thought of it she burst into
tears.
"Alas!" she said, "I am indeed un-
happy. What fills the world with
joy causes inexpressible sorrow to me.
Every poor soldier's wife rejoices in
the return of her husband, and I can
only think with fear of the return of
nine. Ah, what sorrow awaits him!
F 2








HID IN A CAVE.


How shall I tell him the dreadful story
of the loss of the child? There are
no more happy hours for either of us
in this world !"
She was always oppressed with grief.
She could find no rest or peace, but
wandered from one room to another,
then into the castle chapel, then into
the garden. Wherever she went she
prayed continually in her heart to God.
In prayer, and in the thought that
God rules the lot of all men, and can
bring even the greatest perplexities to
a happy conclusion-in these only she
found comfort.
"Oh, merciful God," said she, one
day, when she had been long weeping
bitterly, hidden in the darkest arbour
in the garden, "have pity on me;
have pity on my husband; put an end
to my terrible fears, for Thou alone








THE JOY OF THE COUNTESS. 85

canst. Oh, let us meet joyfully again.
Thou hast, for some wise purpose,
separated father, mother, and child.
Oh, send us back our beloved child,
and bring us all three together again.
Thou hast dried countless tears; oh,
dry mine also. Thou art the All-
merciful One, and to turn sorrow into
joy is Thy dearest work. Oh, Father,
Father, merciful Father, sinner as I
am, I am still Thy daughter, and at
the command of Thy Son I dare to
call Thee Father. Thou lovest me
more than I do my child. Oh, hear
me, hear me, and do not turn away
Thy child, Thy daughter, who has no
other refuge but Thee."
Whilst she thus prayed she heard
a footstep. She looked up and saw
Margaret, who had just arrived with
the rest of the retinue, coming down








IIID IN A CAVE.


the long shady garden walk towards
the arbour. A ray of hope entered the
heart of the Countess as she recognized
Margaret, and looked at her joyful
countenance. It seemed to her as if
she saw an angel from heaven.
Oh! my .dear, gracious lady," began
Margaret, I bring you most joyful
news of your dear Henry. He is alive,
and you will soon see him again."
Margaret had scarcely begun to tell
her story, when Menrad entered the
arbour to prepare the Countess for the
arrival of her son and husband. That
prudent man knew how to inform her
by degrees. The Countess was now in
joyful hope of seeing both her husband
and son in a few days; and she took
Father Menrad into the room she had
formerly occupied with Henry.
As she opened the door, behold,







THE JOY OF THE COUNTESS.


there came her husband with their son
in his arms, hastening to meet her.
She could only exclaim, "My husband!
my child !" and sank into the arms of
the Count. For a long time she wept
without uttering a word.
At length she said, Now I am
willing to die, since I have lived to see
this day. Oh, how wonderfully God
overrules all. I trembled, dearest hus-
band, at the thought that I must meet
you without our dearest Henry, and
now, at the first moment of your
return, you bring him in your arms!
Oh! my God! I cannot thank Thee
enough all my life long that Thou
hast caused such a happy end to this
terrible affliction. As long as I live I
will never again despair in any trouble.
Thou knowest how to make all right
in the end. Oh, my Henry, what a








HID IN A CAVE.


dear boy you have become. Oh, my
husband, what a blessed meeting God
has prepared for us three! He sepa-
rated us from one another, and He has
wonderfully brought us together again.
To Him be praise and thanksgiving."
They all three wept tears of joy and
thankfulness. Margaret wept with
them, and Father Menrad, too, deeply
affected, could not restrain his tears.
After the first transports of joy were
over, Henry began to relate his history
to his mother. He did it in a very
lively manner, and sometimes she cried,
and sometimes she smiled. He de-
scribed vividly how he felt at the
moment when he stepped out into the
world for the first time, through the
cleft in the rock. With yet greater
joy and emotion he spoke of the never-
to-be-forgotten moment when Father







THE JOY OF THE COUNTESS. 89

Menrad told him for the first time
about God; and as he spoke tears
stood in his eyes.
Truly," said the Count, I almost
wish that I had passed my childhood
in such a cave. We are too much
accustomed to the sight of the glorious
works of God. Oh! if we could look
upon them for the first time, like
Henry, after we had come to years of
understanding, what an overpowering
impression they would make upon us!
How we should tremble at Thy power,
gracious God, admire Thy wisdom, and
rejoice in Thy goodness How should
we feel at the sight of Thy glorious
heaven, and Thy wonderful earth!
What touches the heart so much, must
also come from a loving heart."
The Countess said, "As it appeared
to Henry when he came out for the







IIID IN A CAVE.


first time from his underground dwell-
ing upon God's beautiful earth, so will
it be to us when we leave this earthly
life and enter heaven. For I think
that, as Henry's toys-the flowers,
the lambs, the trees, which pleased
him so much in the cave,-were very
imperfect representations of these
glorious works of God, so may all
the visible beauty and joy of this
world be scarcely a shadow of the
beauty and joy of heaven. Only that
joy on earth of seeing again our
beloved ones, after a long and painful
separation, may give us a true foretaste
of that joy in heaven of meeting again
our departed friends; for truly I feel
in this moment of reunion as blessed
as if I were already in heaven !"
Worthy Father Menrad said, The
feelings of the noble Count and his




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