“This miracle,” the soft, harplike voice went on to say, “is one of the most beautiful of the many legends of Saint Elizabeth, and recalls those sacred words: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
With the breath of roses all about her, and the velvet petals so near that she could touch them, the child had listened eagerly to these stories of Saint Elizabeth. Then when the Rose fell silent there came to Katrina’s mind those words which the lady had spoken but a little while before. She recalled how, holding up a blossom, her friend had said that it was beautiful because deep down in its own inner nature there was a beauty which the flower but obeyed. And now, as this thought wove itself like a thread of gold through those stories of Elizabeth and her life of love, Katrina began to understand what her friend had meant.
IX.
lthough Conrad Albrecht’s hands had been painfully and even seriously burned, they had at first given promise of healing; but as the days, then the weeks, went by, the doctor began to look very grave. Another physician was called in consultation, and he too was serious; it was a case of blood poison, they said.
When his father had to remain in bed, Fritz would not leave the room. He was always ready to attend his father’s slightest wish. Neighbours came in every day and offered to help the boy; he did not lack friendly sympathy or service. Rudolf, Frieda, and Katrina came down from the castle daily, and on every visit Katrina brought a bunch of her crimson roses. For hours at a time the sick man’s eyes would rest tenderly upon the blossoms, and they were always placed near enough for him to enjoy their fragrance. It came about, as the days went by, that he began to look eagerly for Katrina and her roses; this was the one bright spot amid dark, suffering hours.
At other times his eyes would wander wistfully to the adjoining room—his workshop. Here, hanging upon the walls, and scattered upon his work-bench, were unfinished toys, waiting for the hands which had begun to fashion them with such loving care. For Conrad Albrecht was one to whom his work was a constant source of happiness; he rejoiced in the creations of his hands. The machine had not come in to rob him of his own individual skill and take away his joy in working. His imagination, too, had had full play. While his hands were busily employed, sometimes with a girl’s dainty doll, sometimes with a boy’s small steam-engine, perfect in every detail, he would picture the homes and the lives of the children who would one day have the toys in their possession, often tracing their lives to womanhood and manhood. So Conrad Albrecht’s days had passed happily enough, and he had been enriched by the blessing of contentment.
One morning as he lay on his bed of pain, Fritz’s father had turned his eyes from Katrina’s roses, and for a long while they had rested sadly on his work-bench with the half-finished toys lying on it. As he lay there looking into that other room, he was thinking how much comfort it would give him if Fritz would one day finish those uncompleted toys; he had come to realize that the task had been taken out of his own hands for ever. Fritz, sitting at the bedside, noticed the look in his father’s eyes, and half-guessed its meaning; but before either could speak, there came a rap on the outer door.
Fritz went at once to answer it, and, to his surprise, he saw the tall, imposing figure of Count von Scholtz standing on the threshold. The boy’s amazement made him speechless for a moment. Only a month or so before he had seen the nobleman, badly injured, borne upon a stretcher.