For many months, as he passed some of the more ancient-looking houses, Fritz would often stop and gaze up at the windows with their tiny panes, saying, as he did so:
“I wonder if the people who lived here long ago heard him singing, and if they threw money to him out of these same windows.”
Very often he had talked about it to Katrina, and she never tired of listening.
“Some day I’ll take thee there, Katrina, indeed I will, and show thee the very bed little Martin Luther slept in.”
“Yes,” was Katrina’s answer, eagerness shining in her big blue eyes. “I want to go and see it all, and,” she added, thoughtfully, “when I’m grown to be a woman like my own, dear mütterchen, I’m going to give money to every little boy I can. It might help them to be great, too, some day. The people who gave little Martin Luther money didn’t know what a great man he was going to be. But,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “maybe it was the home the good Frau Cotta gave him more than the money that helped to make him great.”
The two children, as they talked together, were seated on a bench in the castle courtyard. It was a beautiful summer evening, and Fritz had begged Katrina to come outside and see the splendid colours of the sunset: for this boy of fourteen years was even then an artist in his heart.
For a long while they had been sitting there, their faces toward the western sky, when suddenly both gave a start, while into Katrina’s eyes came a look of wonder. But Fritz laid a calming hand on hers.
“It’s the voice, Katrina, the same voice we heard that other evening! Have no fear; dost thou not remember what it told us?”