But Ella threw up her beseeching eyes, and said to the old man: "Indeed I will not go down, grandfather; I will sit here quite quietly: but do, pray, let me stay out a little longer. I would so like to see all those wagons pass which have just turned into our street."
The burgomaster could not resist her gentle entreaty, and nodded a kindly yes, saying: "Well, then, you may stay, you little coaxing pussy; but do not forget that to-day is Sunday, and that mother and I are waiting for you to come and read the Gospel to us."
He then closed the window slowly, while his eyes rested full of love and kindness upon the joy of his heart, his little grandchild. She certainly did not hear her grandfather's last words, for her whole attention was fixed upon a long train of vehicles, which were moving along as slowly as if they formed part of a funeral procession. Ella sat and gazed upon them. The front wagon finally came quite near, and she then discovered the cause of the slow pace at which they proceeded. Upon the straw which covered the bottoms of the vehicles human forms, clothed in torn uniforms, were lying, and every jolt upon the rough stone pavement seemed to send a thrill of agony through their sensitive frames.
Little Ella's tender heart was deeply touched by the sight of this mournful train; bright tears hung upon her long lashes, and her slender arms involuntarily closed still more tightly around the dog's neck. She pressed him to her bosom, as if she would thus quiet the throbbing of her compassionate heart.
The last wagon at length passed before the door. Within it was a young man, who half sat and half reclined upon the straw, and whose uniform, differing entirely from that of the others, showed him to be an officer. He had evidently been severely wounded. His left arm was in a sling, and he supported his head, enveloped in a rude bandage, upon his right hand. Both the bandage and the tattered uniform were covered with dark-red blood-stains.
As the wagon was passing the burgomaster's house, a trace broke, and the driver left his seat to fasten it. The wounded man looked up, and, observing the child sitting upon the steps, he raised himself with considerable difficulty, and drew his hand slowly across his aching brow. A single look, imploring pity, fell upon Ella; and he then sank back motionless and unconscious upon the straw. The wagon moved on, and the driver seemed to pay more heed to his horses than to his wounded passenger. The little girl's tears fell thick and fast; she watched him until he had disappeared with the others around a corner. She then made a sign to the dog, rose quickly, and, as if inspired by some sudden resolution, hastily entered the house.
Still deeply moved, and her eyes filled with tears, she opened the door which led to her mother's apartment. The room was richly and carefully furnished, and bespoke the wealth and taste of its inmates. The long, flowing window-curtains prevented the sun from shining in too brightly; and only here and there could a few beams pierce through a crevice, and as they fell on the floor, they seemed to sport among the roses adorning the cheerful carpet. Ella's mother sat in a high-backed red-velvet arm-chair. She was the widow of an officer,—Major von Herbart. Still in the prime of life, she bore on her countenance, which had once been very beautiful, the traces of a deep sorrow. A dress of pearl-gray merino fell in soft folds around her graceful figure, and her luxuriant dark hair was covered by a simple lace cap. She leaned against the crimson covering of the chair-back, which rose high above her head, and her delicate hand held a Bible, in which she seemed to have been reading. Her eyes were fixed upon the portrait of a young officer, which hung against the wall opposite to her; and hence she did not remark her daughter's entrance, until Ella had seated herself upon a little stool at her mother's feet, and pressed a soft kiss upon the beloved hand.
"Naughty child!" said the mother, as she stroked the hair back from the fair young forehead with her white fingers, "how you startled me! And how long you have delayed to-day to read your Bible to your dear grandfather and myself!"
Before Ella could respond to this gentle reproach, the old burgomaster entered the room, and seated himself silently in his accustomed place, near his daughter. Ella took the Bible from her mother's lap, and, with a faint and trembling voice, began to read the parable of the good Samaritan, upon which she had accidentally opened. She had often before heard this simple history,—indeed, she almost knew it by heart; but never before had its meaning appeared so clear to her, or penetrated so deeply into her soul. Her voice became firmer, and the words resounded more and more significantly from her lips, until, steadfastly fixing her gaze upon her grandfather's face, she gave utterance to this sentence: "And he went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him."