"It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.
"Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I questioned.
"Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any other."
"Then he has not always liked it?"
"No, sir."
"May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?"
He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz returned.
"Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I know you must be hungry."
White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of himself.
Franz's Story.