"And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.—But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter."
"Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?"
"Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly.
"Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,—
"Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest."
And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and they did the deed."
Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted? Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'"
Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest.
"I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,—of how good God has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters."
In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand.