A bright-looking crowd was assembled under the linden; it seemed as if all the inhabitants of the village were there. All felt the necessity of visiting God’s house to-day to thank Him for the safe return of their sons, brothers, and lovers. The twelve boys who had returned were under the linden in their handsomest Sunday attire. But why did they stand alone? Why was such a wide space left between them and the other villagers? Why did the men avoid looking at them? Why did the maidens step timidly back and remain silent when they approached and tried to speak with them? Why were they all whispering together, pointing at the boys and turning their backs upon them when they drew near?
“Leave them alone,” whispered one of the boys to the others; “they will be more friendly this afternoon when the music is playing and the wine and cake is handed.”
“There is my father, and I must go and meet him,” said Charles Henry, as he hastened toward the old man who was approaching the square.
All drew back from Charles Henry, and as he stood opposite his father, like actors upon the stage they found themselves alone amongst the spectators, who were gazing at them with breathless expectation.
“Good-morning, father,” said Charles Henry, with forced gayety, as he offered his hand to his father. “You slept so late to-day, and went to bed so early yesterday, that I have not been able to speak to you since our first greeting. So I bid you good-morrow now.”
The old man looked quietly at him, but he did not take the proffered hand, and tried to pass him.
“Father,” continued Charles Henry, “you must be tired; our hut lies at the other end of the village, and that is a long walk for your old legs. Rest yourself on me, father, and allow your son to lead you to church.” He stretched forth his hand to take the old man’s arm, but Buschman pushed it back, and passed him, without looking, without even speaking to him.
Charles Henry sprang after him. “Father,” he cried, “do you not hear me? Can you—”
The old man did not really appear to hear him, for he walked toward the village justice with a quiet, unmoved face, as the latter advanced to meet him.
“Friend,” said Buschman, in a loud, firm voice, “I am fatigued with my walk; will you lend me your arm?”