Preparations were now made for a hasty departure, for the Count seemed suddenly stronger. Richard packed their belongings and placed them in the wagon. The bird was hung from a hook fastened in the top of the vehicle. Everything was soon in readiness.

On the following morning they started off. The Count and Marguerite were regaled on the journey by the sweet song of the canary. It cheered them and seemed to make the time pass all the more quickly. After a journey of twenty miles, they reached the village, at sunset.

They repaired at once to the clergyman's house, where they learned that the Countess and Albert Berlow lived in the shepherd's lowly hut, some miles distant. "The Countess holds her husband as dead," said the clergyman, "and no joy can now penetrate her heart. Her health has failed and it seems as if she would not last very long."

Count Berlow asked how she could have received such incorrect news. The clergyman then brought out a package of newspapers, searched for one sheet, and laid it before the Count. He read that, on such a day, and at such an hour, Count Berlow, with twenty others, had been hung. "Strange it is," said the Count, "either they forgot to cross my name from the list, or else they did not wish to, in the hope that in that way they would not be answerable for my escape."

It pained the Count sorely that this false news had brought much suffering to the Countess, for death seemed almost to have enrolled her, too. The clergyman advised them to proceed slowly and cautiously, lest the joyful news of the Count's return should be too great a shock to her.

Intending to follow the good clergyman's advice, they continued their journey. Soon they reached the summit of a wooded hill, and from the distance they discerned the low hut with its flat, thatch-covered roof and smoking chimney. Richard then went hurriedly ahead.

Countess Berlow, dressed in black, sat knitting at the fireside, the light of which illuminated the room, which had been slowly filling with the shadows of the approaching twilight. Albert sat at her side, reading from her favorite volume. As she saw her faithful servant enter, she uttered a loud cry and her work fell from her hands. She hastened toward him, and with a thousand exclamations of joy and pain, she greeted him heartily, as if he were her dear father. Albert, too, was deeply affected.

Countess Berlow then pointed to a chair which Albert had drawn close to the fire, and said: "My good, true friend, be seated. So we see each, other again. Over the death of my dear husband let us draw a veil. The memory of it is too painful for me. But tell me, how is my daughter! Did she die, as the doctor said she might?"

Richard then explained that the doctor had diagnosed the case as more serious than it really was, in order at that time to hurry the mother's flight; and that Marguerite had very shortly after recovered and had remained well ever since. The Countess was greatly pleased with this report, and her eyes gleamed with joy.

"But," said she earnestly, and with a clouded brow, "why did you not bring her with you? Why did you not tear her from the unhappy fatherland where no hour of her life could be safe? How could you leave without her—you hard, cruel man? Why did you not—" she could say no more, for the door opened, and Marguerite rushed to her mother and embraced and kissed her as if nothing could ever again tear them asunder. Albert joined them and gladder tears were never shed than those which the Countess wept in her exceeding happiness.

Alas, the joy soon melted into yearning. "Oh, that my dear, true husband still lived," said the Countess, as she looked to heaven, "for then my measure of joy would be full. Now, my dear children, you are poor and fatherless. The sight of you fills the heart of your oppressed mother with pain. For what can I, a poor, lonely widow, do for you?"

Then Richard interrupted the conversation with the glad news of the Count's rescue. The Countess proved herself more self-controlled than Richard had anticipated, for the great joy of having seen her true servant, the greater joy of again clasping her daughter in her arms was for this woman the preparation for the greatest of joys—the joy of again seeing the husband whom she had mourned as dead.

The Count had long stood, with palpitating heart, waiting before the door of the hut, where each word had fallen distinctly on his ear.

Richard's last words had scarcely been uttered when the Countess cried:
"He lives; he has been saved from the hands of his oppressors." The
Count then opened the door, and overcome with emotion, fell at the feet
of the Countess.

Timid and fearful, as if she half doubted that he really lived, she gazed at him long and steadily as the light of the fire irradiated his face. She could scarcely express her rapture. Then after a long pause she said: "Oh, the joy of again seeing my loved ones for whom I have wept so long!"

Father and mother, son and daughter, and faithful servant spent a peaceful, joyous evening in the little, lowly hut. The old shepherd and his good wife shared in the contentment which filled their little home to overflowing.

On the following morning, there was brought into this lowly hut another guest who had rendered such helpful service in the speedy reuniting of the separated family—the little canary bird.

Albert was delighted to see his bird again, for during his mother's illness he had found it impossible to care properly for it, and had reluctantly disposed of it at the fancier's in a distant village.

Count Berlow then related at length the circumstances which had brought the bird into his possession and how it had helped to give him the needed hope and strength to continue the journey which had ended so successfully in their reunion.

Albert joined in the conversation, and said, "Wasn't it a happy thought to teach the bird that particular song, when I knew so many songs? But then, you see, it was the song nearest and dearest to my heart. It was my father's song. Little did I think, when I had to part with my pet, that it would be taken from me only to restore my father and sister to me."

"So we see," said the Count, "how through a little trial we may find a great joy. I trust that through our losses we all have gained in humility and sympathy, which have a lasting worth; and perhaps God will return to us our past fortune, just as he has returned your canary to you."

Count Berlow was obliged to spend the winter under the roof of this lowly hut, and Richard was housed in a neighboring one.

The canary bird was hung in the same place it had graced before it was sold to the fancier. Marguerite cared for it daily and never neglected to give it proper food and water.

Often, when the family was gathered together around the friendly fireside, on a cold winter's evening, the bird would begin to sing the song so acceptable to them. The children and the parents would join in the chorus, and they found therein comfort and hope.

The noble family was forced to live for some time in these same narrow quarters; but at last they were permitted to return to their fatherland, where they again came into possession of their property. The Count and Countess rejoiced in being wealthy once more, for now they could return in measure full and overflowing, the goodness and kindness of the friends who had proven themselves in the hour of need.

The good, faithful Richard, with his kind wife and their clever, honest son; John, the brave old fisherman; and the helpful shepherd and shepherdess, together with the devout clergyman, were among the first to receive this reward—the expression of gratitude and love from a family of loyal members.