After rather a long silence he broke out in his earnest way,—
“I think they will. I’m sure Ann-Katherin will, because Seppi always told her everything—what we talked about and what we thought about. She will know why I made it a cross, and why I put the lily on.”
“Why did you, my boy?” asked the father gently.
“Well, you see, father, it was like this. We used to talk about things—Seppi and I—and he used to tell me things I didn’t know. You know the people about here are some of them Roman Catholics, and they do things that seem queer to us. They go down on their knees when they pass a cross or a crucifix by the roadside, and Seppi said that Protestants called that wicked, so that they didn’t have any crosses or anything like that in their churches. But I told him we did in England, and he thought it was nice, if it wasn’t wrong; and so we asked Herr Adler about it, and he told us.”
“Told you what?”
“Oh, just made us understand what was right and beautiful and true, without getting wrong things mixed up with it. Herr Adler is so nice like that. He loves the Roman Catholics, and calls them brothers, but he knows better than anybody I ever met just where they are wrong, because they go beyond the Bible, and teach things that are not there; and he loves the Protestants, because they made a stand for the truth and would not have the Bible kept from them, nor have a Pope for the head of the church instead of our Lord; but he tells us just where they have cut away too much and left their churches bare and their services too. And so he told us that we were right to love the symbol of the cross (as Seppi did, only he was afraid it was wrong), because St. Paul said that he would glory in it, and our Lord said we were to take up our cross and follow Him. We used to talk about Seppi’s lameness. I think that was his cross; and I knew he would have liked to have one at his grave—though I don’t think anybody else would put one there. And you see the lily means that he isn’t lame any more—that he has laid down his cross, and that he is in God’s garden now—a lily, perhaps, or some beautiful flower, just blooming there with the others, and waiting for the Lord to come. Like his dream.”
And then Squib slipped his hand again into his father’s, and the pair walked back to the chalet again.
They had plenty of interesting things to talk of. Not only were they going home soon, but everything had been arranged about the Ernsthausens and the piece of ground which Colonel Rutland had bought and made over to them. Everything was practically settled by that time; and as they passed through the place on their homeward way, Squib was to have the great delight of seeing the site of the proposed hotel, and of being introduced to Seppi’s father.
Moor was one of the little party at the grave that day. He had stood with wistful eyes and drooping tail whilst father and son remained there. It seemed almost as if he knew who it was that lay sleeping below; but he had quite settled down by this time in his new home and with his new master, and Squib had won his fathers consent to taking the faithful dog back to England with him.
At first there had been some doubt about this. Both parents had thought the dog would be far happier in his own home, and could not understand Squib’s assurances to the contrary; but when it was demonstrated time after time that, if taken back to the peasant’s chalet, the dog would return almost immediately to his new master with every demonstration of joy and affection, Colonel Rutland was fain to admit that some inexplicable bond had been formed between the pair, and he no longer resisted Squib’s earnest appeal to be permitted to take the dog home with them. He was not a beautiful animal, but his fidelity and sagacity were beyond dispute. Squib and he were devoted friends, and since poor Czar was no more, one dog was manageable on the homeward journey.