The mother raised herself on her pillow and looked over at her child's bed. The moonlight played on the counterpane and the pillows and transfigured the face of the sleeping boy who had cried himself to sleep after telling his sorrowful tale, and on whose cheeks the traces of tears were still to be seen, although he now smiled again in his slumber and knew no more of the day's trouble. Round about the town of Neustadt the birds of night stirred in the bushes and along the edges of the streams and ponds; the night-watchman's hoarse voice sounded now near, now far; the clocks of the two churches quarreled about the right time and were of very different opinions; all the bats and owls of Neustadt were very lively, knowing their hours exactly and never making a mistake of a minute; mice squeaked in the wall of the bedroom and one mouse rustled under Mrs. Christine's bed; a bluebottle that could not sleep either flew about buzzing, now here, now there, now banging his head against the window, now against the wall and seeking in vain for some way out; in the next room the grandfather's chair behind the stove cracked and there was such a weird and ghostly pattering and creeping about in the attic that it was hard to adhere to the soothing belief in "cats." Mrs. Christine Unwirrsch, who, being gifted with a foreboding mind, usually had a keen and fearful ear for all the noises and sounds of the night and who did not in the least doubt the penetration of the spirit-world into her bedroom, had no time in this night to listen to these things and get goose-flesh in consequence. Her heart was too full of other matters and the ghosts that roam between earth and heaven and play at will on the nerves of men had no power over her. The mother felt her responsibility for the destiny of her child weigh heavy upon her and although she was a poor, ignorant woman she was not therefore less concerned; indeed, her concern was perhaps greater because her idea of her child's desire was incomplete and inadequate.
She looked long at sleeping Hans till the moon glided on in the firmament and the rays slipped from the bed and slowly retired toward the window. When at last complete darkness filled the room she sighed deeply and whispered:
"His father wished it, and no one shall set himself against his father's will. God will surely help me, poor, stupid woman that I am, to make it come out right. His father wished it and the child shall have his way according to his father's will."
She rose quietly from her couch and crept out of the room with bare feet, so as not to wake the sleeping boy. In the living room she lit the lamp. She sat down for a few moments on her husband's work-chair and wiped the tears from her eyes; and then she carried the light to that chest in the corner of which we have already told, knelt down and opened the ancient lock which offered obstinate resistance to the key as long as possible.
When the lid was laid back the room was filled with the scent of clean linen and dried herbs, rosemary and lavender. This chest contained everything precious and valuable that Mrs. Christine possessed and carefully she controlled herself so that no tear should fall into it. Carefully she laid back the white and colored linen, smoothing each fold as she did so; carefully she laid aside the little boxes with old, trivial knickknacks, broken, cheap jewelry, loose amber beads, bracelets of colored glass beads and similar treasures of the poor and of children, until, nearly at the bottom of the chest, she came to what she was seeking in the stillness of the night. With timid hand she first pulled out a little case with a glass cover; her head sank lower as she opened it. It contained Master Anton's book of songs and on the book lay a dried myrtle wreath. It was as if distant bells, the tones of an organ trembled through the night and through the soul of the kneeling woman; Auntie Schlotterbeck did not see the dead alive more clearly and distinctly than Christine Unwirrsch saw them at that moment. She folded her hands above the open case and her lips moved softly. No other prayer came to her mind but "Our Father" and that sufficed.
A second case stood beside the first, an old box made of oak, trimmed with iron, with a strong lock, an ingenious piece of work belonging to the seventeenth century, which had been in the possession of the Unwirrsches for generations. Mrs. Christine carried this box to the table and before she opened it she put everything back in its place in the chest; she loved order in all things and did nothing in haste even now.
It was a bright light that the little lamp and the hanging glass globe gave, but the box on the table, black with age as it was, outshone them both, its contents spoke louder of the preciousness of parents' love than if its price had been announced by a thousand trumpets in all the marketplaces of the world. The lock turned, the lid sprang open: money was in the box!—much, much money—silver coins of all kinds and even one gold piece wrapped in tissue paper. Rich people might well have smiled at the treasure but if they had had to pay the true value of every thaler and florin all their riches might not have sufficed to buy the contents of the black box. Hunger and sweat had been paid for every coin and a thousand noble thoughts and beautiful dreams clung to each. A thousand hopes lay in the dark box, Master Anton had hidden his purest self in it, and Christine Unwirrsch had added all her love and her faithfulness.
Who, just looking at the scanty heap of well-fingered pieces of money, could have imagined all this?
A little book, consisting of a few sheets of gray paper stitched together, lay beside the money; the father's hand had filled the first pages with letters and figures but then death had closed worthy Master Anton's account and for many years now the mother had done the bookkeeping, by faith, without letters and figures, and the account still balanced.