After some years the Curé died, and a new one was appointed, but the people of Emmel persisted in saying their prayers by themselves without any assistance; and, in spite of all remonstrances, many families remained schismatics until a few years back. It is doubtful whether they have all returned to their former allegiance, even at the present time.
Round the pebbly bed in which our river sings along her course where her banks widen, then again beneath impending cliffs, we hurry on, past Minnheim, Rondel, Winterich, and other little nests of vitality, from which the labourers come forth to cultivate the fertile soil.
Two pretty legends are told of this district; the first is called “The Cell of Eberhard;” the second, “The Blooming Roses;” and there is an evident connexion between the two.
THE CELL OF EBERHARD.
A mother, being provoked, said to her unoffending child, “Go off to the devil!” The poor girl, frightened, wandered into the woods, then covered with snow.
Soon the mother, growing calm, became anxious about her child, and sought her everywhere, but she could not be found: lamenting, she wept all night.
At daybreak she arose, and induced her neighbours to join her in her search; but no tracks were found in the freshly-fallen snow.
The mother then sought Eberhard’s Cell, and wept and prayed till four days and nights had passed. She now requested the priest to say a mass for her lost child. No sooner had the priest raised the Host on high, than a tender voice sounding from the forest said, “Your little girl yet lives.”
Out sprang the mother, and there, beneath the trees, she found her little daughter, a nosegay of summer flowers in one hand and a green twig in the other. With tears of joy the mother clasped her, and asked her how she had been preserved.