The perusal of a continuance of this scene will scarcely repay our readers. Suffice it to say that Mr. Fabian's reign of one hour remained thereafter a legend only. Like all other unsuccessful revolutions, it was followed by a government still more exacting and severe.

CHAPTER XIX.

CARL.

Winter had departed. Ragnar, the bold seaman, had left his home, and his ship was ploughing the broad ocean. The gra.s.s in the valley waved gracefully in the light winds of spring. The children once more launched their miniature boats, and the occupants of the cottage all labored for the good of the little commonwealth.

But there was one of the family who could not mingle in their labors, and who sat quietly in his corner, gazing cheerfully upon the operations of the others. It was Carl.

During the winter Carl had been confined to his bed, but at the present time he occupied his father's arm-chair, which the old man had relinquished to him. He usually sat in a corner near Magde's spinning wheel and his father's bed-room door.

When the children returned from their out of doors sports, they would sit on the floor near Carl's chair, and listen to the many tales of fairies, nymphs, and sea G.o.ds, that he told them in a pleasant but weak voice, while he as formerly made willow whistles and repaired their little boats.

The neighbors' children also visited the cottage that they might hear his last stories, and they all brought with them many little gifts that their mothers had prepared for poor Carl. At a later period the mothers came themselves, bringing their own presents, which they carried in large baskets, for there was not one in the entire neighborhood for whom Carl had not performed a service, and without a solitary exception they all loved him.

Then who was to take his place, after he should be taken from his friends. In fact perfect pilgrimages were made to Carl, who always received the pilgrims with pleasant words and cheerful smiles. Carl was not insensible to the pleasure he derived from being able in turn to present to Magde the gifts he received from his friends.

"Ah," Nanna often said, "how pleasant it is to be beloved," and she would sigh as she thought of the absent one who had vowed to love her forever, and whose word was her creed of life. How much happiness Nanna derived from this creed! It solaced her in many lonely hours, and produced a favorable effect upon her every action and thought. She no longer was oppressed, as formerly, with dreaming indolence. Her cheeks were roses now.

Old Mr. Lonner and Magde were much gratified at this unexpected change in Nanna's deportment, and they could account for it only by supposing that she was much wiser than other girls of her age.

Carl, however, had peculiar views upon this subject, and when Nanna would exclaim, "O, how pleasant it is to be beloved!" he would reply:

"You know right well that there is some one who loves you, or else you would not be so light hearted."

When Carl thus spoke Nanna would blush with confusion.

"You must not speak so when any one can hear you," she would reply.

Carl would then nod his head pleasantly, and one day he learned the secret, for he felt he could not remain long on this earth, and he wished to know all, and aside from that Nanna was anxious to discover whether he believed as firmly as she did in Gottlieb's vows.

"Do you think, Carl," said she, as she concluded her recital, "do you think he will return?"

"As certainly as I shall never see the sun rise on St. John's day, for I saw that in his eye, which a.s.sured me he would not break his promises."

"Why do you use such an ominous comparison, Carl? Why do you think you will not see the sunrise on St. John's day?"

The pain caused by the beginning of Carl's remark, clouded the pure joy which his concluding words would have otherwise created.

"I am waiting," said he, "only that I may see the lilacs bloom once more. In those beautiful flowers I have found my greatest joy."

Old Mr. Lonner occasionally attempted to prepare his son's mind for the future which awaited him; but he ceased when one day Carl innocently addressed him:

"Father," said he, "I wish you would not talk with me thus. I believe in our Saviour and his love for us sinners, and as I do not think I have done much harm--except perhaps when I stole the game--I fear not for the future. I shall wait patiently until my Saviour chooses to take me to himself. I can well imagine that there is not much s.p.a.ce in heaven; but I believe that there is a small place for one so insignificant as me, where I can wait the coming of Magde, Nanna, Father, Ragnar, and all the little ones, that is if they do not hold me in contempt."

"How strangely you talk, dear Carl!" said Magde, entering into the conversation. "You well know that I would like to be near you in heaven, for you are aware that next to Ragnar I love you more than any other being on earth."

"You say so only to make me happy; but I am not so vain as to believe your words."

"Is there any one here who displays more love for you than I?" inquired Magde.

Carl smiled, and glanced at the wall. There hung a new vest, the pattern of which Carl examined as carefully as though each thread had been a painting in itself.

"Do you think," said he, after a pause, during which his father left the room, "do you think that Ragnar is vexed with me? He certainly must have observed that I love you more than, perhaps, I should--I speak frankly to you, Magde, for I know you are different from others, and I could not die in peace if I thought that my brother Ragnar was offended with me."

"Be convinced, my dear Carl, that Ragnar loves you as a brother should.

He saw undoubtedly that no one could please you so well as I; but he often told me, and especially before his last departure--"

"What did he say?" inquired Carl, eagerly.

"'Magde,' said he, 'never desert Carl. He is an honest and faithful soul, who can find no joy unless with you; but Carl is not the one who would seek to injure me by word or thought, and therefore I shall not interfere with his sentiments, but allow him to entertain them freely, and,' he added, 'you may tell him this at some future time when he may feel troubled on my account.'"

"Did he speak thus, a.s.suredly?"

"He did, I swear it by my hopes of meeting him again."

"And you have obeyed him, and not deserted me; but will you do so as long as I am with you here?"

"Never shall I desert you, Carl."

"And when the last moment approaches," said he in a soft tone, "you will moisten my lips, you will smooth my pillow, and when the struggle of death comes upon me, I wish you to hold my hand in yours, as you now do, that I may feel that you are with me. Then you must--will you do so, Magde?--close my eyes with your own hands, and sing a psalm to me."

To all these touching requests, which were rendered still more affecting by the tender expression of his eyes, Magde replied tearfully:

"My dear Carl, your words shall be obeyed."

Carl smiled. He was now happier at the thought of his approaching death, which would bring such proofs of Magde's affection, than one who might have possessed a prospect of a long and luxurious life.

The lilac bushes blossomed, and Magde placed the first flowers in his hands while he yet could inhale their fragrance. The last flowers she strewed upon his grave.

CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

A long season of gloom and despondency succeeded the death of Carl.

It was fortunate that Ragnar returned home at an earlier period than usually; the flowers on Carl's grave had not withered when Magde piously conducted him to his brother's final resting-place.

"Rest in peace, poor brother," said Ragnar, brushing away a tear, "G.o.d saw best to take you from us--but, dear Magde, you must not grieve too much for his death, or you will not be able to rejoice at the news I have for you."