One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a river in Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved by the old man’s imploring gestures to cross him. “He’s mighty nigh his end, anyhow,” he muttered, looking at the feeble movements of the old pilgrim as he stumbled to his seat.
Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant sound of a melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim leaped to his feet and threw up his arms.
“O my God,” he cried, “found at last!”
“It’s the bells of the Convent,” said the wondering man, not understanding Otto’s words spoken in a foreign tongue, but answering his gesture. “They was brought from somewhere in Holland when they were fighting there. Moighty fine bells they are, anyhow. But he isn’t listening to me.”
No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered, “Come back to me after so many years,—O love of my soul, O thought of my life! Peal on, for your voices tell me of Paradise.”
The last note floated through the air, and as it died away something else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and struggles of life.
BRESLAU.