On a morning in September, Frau Arnt and her wounded son returned to their native village. Fritz, weak and lame, had to lean on his mother’s arm for support, as the two walked the short distance from the railway station.
“Strange that Wilhelm should not have been here to welcome us!” observed the widow. “He cannot have received my note to tell of our coming.”
“Don’t let us pass our old cottage, mother,” said Fritz faintly. “I have never liked to go near it since Carl Gesner turned us out of it.”
“Nay, my son; we must take the shortest path home,” said the widow. “And as for Carl Gesner, have you not told me how freely you have forgiven him?”
Turning a corner of the road as she spoke, the old cottage lay straight before her.
“Why, there is Carl Gesner himself,” exclaimed Fritz, “nailing something to the wall!”
“And Wilhelm helping him in his work!” cried the widow, in great surprise.
At the sound of his mother’s voice, Wilhelm turned suddenly round, and, at the sight of her and his brother, uttered a loud exclamation. The boy then bounded towards them, his eyes sparkling with joy at Fritz’s return, and with another joy the cause of which he had yet to keep a secret.
It was not a secret long. The glad exclamation uttered by Wilhelm drew the attention of Carl Gesner, whose back had been turned. The moment that he saw Fritz Arnt he hastened towards him.
“My brother-soldier, my brave young preserver, welcome!” cried Carl, holding out his hand; and Fritz would not now refuse to exchange a cordial grasp with the man whom he once had hated. “I joined the army soon after you did,” continued Carl Gesner. “Like yourself, I have had to leave it on account of my wounds, though my recovery has been more rapid than yours. You look weary, but rest is at hand. Here is your home; it is put into perfect repair. Let us enter it now together.”