“Yes, to America, mutterchen,” he replied to the widow’s exclamation, speaking in a tender voice of entreaty. “It is not so very far, you know, dear little mother, eh? It will be only from Bremerhaven to Southampton in England,—you recollect going there with me for a trip, don’t you, the year before last?—and from Southampton to New York; and, there, I shall be in my new home in ten days’ time at the outside! Why, it’s nothing, a mere nothing of a voyage when you come to consider it properly.”
“Across the wide, wild ocean that has already robbed me of Eric, my youngest,” went on poor Madame Dort, unheeding his words; “you, my firstborn—my only son now—I shall never see you more, I know!” and she gave way to a burst of tears.
“Say not so, darling mother,” said Madaleine, throwing her arms round her and joining in her weeping with a sympathetic heart, feeling quite as great grief at the idea of parting with her lover. “He will return for us both bye-and-bye. He is only going to make that home for us in the Far West we’ve read about so often lately, which he cannot hope to establish here; and then, my mother,—for you are my mother too, now, are you not?—he will come back for you and me, or we will go out and join him.”
“And I should like to know what will become of me, Fraulein Madaleine,” interposed Lorischen indignantly. “Am I to be left behind to be bothered all my life long by that little plague, Burgher Jans?”
“No, no, Lorischen,” laughed Fritz; “a home across the sea in America would not be a home without you—or Mouser, either,” he added.
“That’s all right, then,” said the old nurse affably; her digression serving to break the gravity of the conversation, and make Madame Dort take a better view of the matter.
“But, it’s a terrible journey, though, a terrible journey—almost worse than parting with him to go to the war,” said the widow sadly to herself.
“Ah, but you did not have Madaleine with you then,” replied Fritz, turning a look of affection to the fair girl clinging to his mother. “She will be a daughter to you, and comfort you in my absence, I know.”
“Aye, that I will,” exclaimed Madaleine fondly, caressing her adopted parent and gazing at Fritz with the blue eyes full of love, although blinded with tears. “I shall love her dearly for your sake, my darling, as well as for her own—and my own too; and we will all look forward to meeting again happily after our present parting, with hope and trust in the good God who will protect and watch over you in return for our prayers!”
“Amen to that,” said Lorischen heartily. “And I tell you what it is, Master Fritz—we’ll be all ready when you give the word to follow you across the sea to that wonderful America! I declare I’m quite longing to see it, for I don’t think much of this Lubeck now, with such curious, meddling, impertinent people in it like that odious little fat man, Burgher Jans.”