“Yes, yes,” said the pastor, “but never mind. The springs are distant and dear. I have given it up long ago. Sometimes, indeed, it seems as if it would be a little thing for my lord count up on the hill to treat his old pastor to the journey. But he must need all his money for the gay life he leads at the capital—oh, no! he is not to be thought of, nor the springs either.”
This had been the conclusion for the last ten years of every conversation between the worthy people, whenever the subject was the health of the good pastor. What availed him his duties so faithfully performed, the love and veneration of his flock, his gay world of flowers just outside the door, and his circle of blooming children? There he sat in the great arm-chair, while without the birds were singing, the lindens in full leaf, the little six-years-old Paul was exercising a troop of wooden soldiers, the gentle Hermine dancing merrily, and in a distant part of the garden the beautiful Theodora was walking with her youngest brother, the little pet, Ernst. Indeed, the worthy Seidelman might well be happy, surrounded by all these treasures. But he was bowed down by disease, not of mind, but of body; and he was very poor, though that was no one’s fault but his own. For how in the world was any one with such a soft heart ever to grow rich. His house was always open to the needy, and not rarely to the wolf even in sheep’s clothing, and often when on his return from some wedding, his wife would search anxiously in his pockets for the fee, he would say, with a look of shame and contrition, “Don’t be vexed, Catharine, I have given it to Gottlieb, he has broken his leg;” then both would smile through their tears, and the orders to the butcher for the next week would be countermanded.
But one other grief burdened the worthy people. Anxiety on account of their favorite child Theodora, just eighteen years old, and so gentle, who became every day more and more estranged from them. In his sleepless nights of pain, she left the care of her father entirely to her mother and her sister Hermine, and shut herself up in her room, where they saw her candle burning until long after midnight, and to their anxious questionings she gave only confused, unsatisfactory replies. But now, when the roses in her cheeks had begun to fade, her father and mother had determined that, when twilight came, when she always went to walk in the large garden, they would penetrate into her securely-locked apartment, and solve, if possible, the sad riddle. And they had selected this evening for the attempt.
There she strolled through the dark linden walks on this lovely summer evening, with her little brother. But there was even more joy in her heart than in the glad singing of Ernst, and the setting sun mirrored itself in her eyes, sparkling with delight. “Sink into thy golden cradle, thou friendly light; with thy setting arises a holyday for us all, thy Easter morning, oh, dear father.” Thus she exulted, all unconscious of the treachery meditated against her by the anxious love of her parents. And just at this moment, when, full of happiness, she bent down over a hedge of roses, suddenly the fate of her future life stood before her, a youth of most prepossessing appearance. He started at the sight of the fair girl, and greeted her with evident embarrassment. Theodora, too, was confused, she knew not why, and her handkerchief dropped from her trembling hand while she turned hastily away. He picked it up, hastened after her, and in a gentle voice, but with a foreign accent, begged pardon if his sudden appearance had alarmed her, and hoped that on so beautiful an evening he might not be the cause of shortening her walk. But her walk was interrupted, and she turned toward home much sooner than she had intended, just in time to frustrate, for this evening at least, the design of her parents, who were just upon the point of ascending the stairs to her room.
And now, when supper was finished, and the pastor was lighting his evening pipe, with the children playing around him, what heavy parcel does Theodora bring in, and what drops are those shining upon her cheek? “My dear father,” she said, “I bring you here the money—a hundred dollars—which I have earned for you. It is little, but it is enough to carry you to the springs. Now you will be well once more,” and she sunk into his arms.
Imagine the happiness of this moment. The children left their play and gathered round their parents; the father weighed the gold incredulously in his hand, and the whole secret was disclosed amid thanks and kisses. Upon the altar of filial love Theodora had laid the hard earnings of her needle. For two long years she had sewed and embroidered with unremitting industry, while every one else was sleeping. Her cheeks indeed were pale, and she had been for a while estranged from those who were dearer to her than all the world beside, but she had gained the reward that she had striven for so long.
“Present arms!” cried Paul to his soldiers; “don’t you see, you rogues, in whose presence you are standing?”
“Yes, dear one,” said her father, “you have worked hard indeed for me, for us all, and thy days shall be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”
More brightly than the star-spangled heaven without, shone the heaven glittering with new hopes and joys within the little parsonage. “You will be well again,” cried the children, “you will be able to dance just like us.”
“Yes,” answered their father, “to dance, and ride, and—but only think, Catharine, of my really going to the springs! I can hardly believe it.”