"I'll keep her in my heart till I die, Karl," he responded, "and I pray God to give her a happier life than mine can be. That is all I can do."
"Will you see her before you go?" I asked, fully intending that there should be no doubt on the question.
"Yes, and then--" He paused; and, after a little time, I asked:--
"And what then, Max?"
"God only knows what, Karl. I'm sure I don't," he answered.
We talked till late into the night, lay down on our soft, clean beds of straw, and were soon asleep.
I did not know how long I had been sleeping when I was wakened by a voice that seemed to fill the room, low, soft, and musical as the tones of an Aeolian harp. I groped my way noiselessly in the dark to Max's bed and aroused him. Placing my hand over his mouth to insure silence, I whispered:--
"Listen!"
He rested on his elbow, and we waited. After a few seconds the voice again resounded through the room, soft as a murmured ave, distinct as the notes of a bird. Max clutched my hand. Soon the voice came again, and we heard the words:--
"Little Max, do you hear? Answer softly."