One expects steady weather in October; so it was really not extraordinary that the next morning should break fair and quiet, with a sunny haze lying over the river. Nevertheless, Maggie rejoiced.

"What a pleasant day we had yesterday!" she exclaimed, as the party sat at breakfast.

"Are not all your days pleasant?" said Meredith.

"Yes, but yesterday was uncommon. O Ditto! we didn't look at the map last night!"

"We were looking at stones."

"Yes, but we must look at the map after breakfast. I want to find all those places."

"Take time," said Meredith, "and eat your breakfast. LÜneburg heath will not run away."

But, after breakfast, indeed, the great atlas was fetched out to the sunny terrace in front of the house and laid on a settee, and Maggie and Meredith sat down before the map of Germany with business faces.

"Now, here is the Elbe," said Maggie, "it is big enough to be seen; here is the mouth of it, just in a corner under Denmark, where those ships went from."

"What ships?"

"Why, the ships in which the Saxons went over to England—the Saxons that conquered England, Meredith."

"You do remember," said Meredith smiling. "It is worth while reading to you."

"They sailed from the mouths of the Elbe and the Weser—and here is the Weser. The mouths are pretty near together. Now, between the Elbe and the Weser were—which Saxons, Ditto?""Towards the Elbe and beyond it were the Eastphalians; those our story belongs to, among whom Landolf went."

"Well, here is the Aller, Ditto! they lived there, you know; that is pretty far west. And here is Hermannsburg! Oh, I am glad we have found that. And here is LÜneburg—all over here, I suppose. I suppose we couldn't find the stone-houses, Ditto?"

"I suppose not. But here is Verden on the Aller, Maggie, where Charlemagne had those 4500 Saxons hewed to pieces. And here are OsnabrÜck and Detmold, where the Saxons beat him again, and took the 4000 captives that they slew at the stone-houses."

"Horrid Charlemagne!"

"It was all horrid, what concerned the fighting. But here is Minden, Maggie, from which good Landolf set out in his little boat, and dropped down the Weser to go to the East Saxons."

"And, then, when he got to the Aller he went up that; then he had to row hard, I guess."

"I guess he did a good deal of hard rowing, first and last, Maggie."

"Then to get to the stone-houses he went further up the Aller and turned into the Oerze. Here is the Oerze! Then the stone-houses must be somewhere hereabouts, Ditto; for they are not very far from Hermannsburg."

"There is the little river Wieze, Maggie; and here, where it flows into the Oerze, was that oak wood, sacred to Thor, where the village of MÜden now is. And here is the village of Munster where Freija was honoured. All over the land, then, it was wild country, woods and morasses. And now—think what Germany is!"

"What is it, Ditto?"

"It is the land of Thought, and Art, and Learning, and Criticism."

"Look here!" broke in a lively voice behind them. "Do you know the sun is getting up in the sky? and we have settled nothing. And here are two heads over a map!""It would not hurt a third head," said Meredith. "And Maggie and I have settled a good deal, thank you."

"But where are we going to-day?"

"Yes," added Esther behind, "where are we going? I think it is time to be getting ready, because it takes us a good while."

"Esther," said Maggie, "Fairbairn and the men are going over to the pine terrace to cut down some trees papa wants cut; let us go there and have a big bonfire, and then Ditto will have plenty of coals for his friar's omelet."

"Betsey is making us a chicken pie."

"Well, the omelet will do no harm besides."

"No. It is a good way over to the pine terrace."

"I don't care how far it is. So much the better. It is nice walking. Do you care, Flora?"

"She don't care," said Meredith. "Come, let us load up. If we have a journey before us, best be about it."

"And then, Esther," Maggie went on, "we can go to the Lookout rock to read."

"It will be sunny there."

"Well, it's all nice on the pine terrace, and we can find plenty of shade. Now, then, Ditto—if you'll bring up the waggon."

The business of loading-up began. There were always some varieties every time. To-day a basket of sweet potatoes formed one item, going to be roasted in the great fire-heap which would be left from the bonfire. A great chicken pie, fresh and hot, was carefully wrapped up and put in. Meredith provided a hatchet to trim branches with. Worsted work and afghan, of course; but the only book was in Meredith's pocket. The cart was quite loaded when all was done; for you know, cups and saucers and plates weigh heavy, if you put enough of them together, and the chicken pie in the dish was a matter of a good many pounds, and potatoes are heavy, too. Somebody had to carry the bottle of cream, and Fairbairn went laden with a pail of water.

The day was just another like the day before, but the direction of the walk was different. The party turned to the left instead of to the right, and leaving the flower-beds and shrubbery, entered a pretty winding road which curled about through a grove of red cedars. The air was spicy, dry and warm. A soft, rather thick, haze filled the air, turning the whole world into a sort of fairy land. The hills looked misty, the river still and dreamy; outlines were softened, colours were grown tender. The happy little party, it is true, gave not much heed to this bewitchment of nature, with the one exception of Meredith; Flora and Esther were in a contented state of practical well-being which had no sentiment in it; Maggie and her dog were a pair for jocund spirits and thoughtless delight-taking. They both went bounding about, very much taken up with each other; while Meredith pulled the cart steadily on and feasted mentally on every step of the way. The road brought them soon to the neighbourhood of the river again, and ran along a grassy bank which sloped gently down to the edge of the water. The green sward was dotted with columnar red cedars, growing to a height of thirty feet, with a diameter of two or two and a half all the way, straight as a pillar. On the other hand a low, rocky height grown with oaks and hemlocks overhung the valley, and the rocky ridge seemed to sweep round to the front of them in a wide amphitheatre, giving a sky-line of variegated colour, soft and glowing under the haze. Travelling on, they got next into a wood and lost the river. Here all was wild; the ground strewn with rock and encumbered with low growth of huckleberry bushes, brambles, and ferns. The road, however, was good; and Meredith drew the cart without any difficulty. After a time the ground began to rise, for, in fact, they were approaching the further end of the rocky ridge before mentioned, where it swept round to the river. Midway of the height the hill shelved into a wide plateau or terrace; at the back of it the sharp, rocky hillside, in front of it a green slope leading down to the river. The ground on the plateau was gravelly and poor; it gave foothold to little beside white and yellow pines, which in places stood thick, in other places parted and opened for spaces of mossy turf, where the too shallow soil would not nourish them. Here, there was a wild wilderness of natural beauty. Now and then a lovely low-growing white pine spreading abroad its bluish-green branches; in other parts scraggy, tall-shooting specimens of the yellow variety; at the hill-foot and on the rocky hillside golden hickories and brown oaks and flaunting maples. The turf was dry and warm, being in fact half moss; the openings and glades allured the party from one sweet resting spot into another.

"We may as well stop here," said Flora at last. "We might go round and round all day, it is all so pretty. We must stop somewhere, if we are to have any reading."

"Let us go over yonder to the edge of the bank," said Meredith, "where we can have a view of the river."

At the edge of the bank the cedars began to occupy the ground, and indeed hindered the view, but a few strokes of Fairbairn's axe set that right, and the party sat down in the shade of some taller trees with a lookout over the pretty conical cedars (not columnar here) down to the water, and across to the green and gold promontory which on the other side of the river closed the view. The girls got out their work. Maggie sat down panting after a race with Rob Roy. Meredith lounged upon the mossy bank and looked lazy. Presently the strokes of a couple of axes began to break the silence. One, two; one, two; one, two——

"It only wanted that!" he exclaimed.

"What!" said Esther.

"That chopping. That ring of the axes. It completes the charm. This is elysium!"

"We have got to make our bonfire!" said Maggie starting.

"Wait,—not yet; they have not cut down a single tree yet. Hark! there it goes, crashing down. They have got to trim it yet, Maggie, before there will be anything to burn."

"And they must cut and trim a good many trees before there will be enough to begin," said Esther. "It is more fun to have plenty to pile on at once.""Then we shall wait a good while for our dinner," said Maggie.

"Are you hungry? It is only half-past eleven."

"No, I am not hungry yet, but a bonfire takes a good while, you know, and I want to get to the reading."

"Come! we might read an hour," said Meredith rousing himself up.

"No, Ditto, that would bring it to half-past twelve, and that would never do."

"Well, then, I will go trim, and we'll have the bonfire going in a few minutes. Where will you have it?"

Maggie sought out a good spot, while Meredith took his hatchet and went to work, clearing the lopped branches of their smaller leafy twigs which were for the fire, and cutting in two the branches which were not worth trimming. There was a nice piece of work then to drag them to the bonfire place, for it was needful to choose an open, free space for making the fire, where the flames would not mount or be blown into the tops of trees that were to be left standing, and so scorch and injure them. No such open space was at command in the close neighbourhood of the cutting, so the stuff for the fire had to be transported some distance. Maggie and Meredith worked away at it, and Maggie called Esther and Meredith summoned Flora to help; and soon they were all heartily engaged, and running to and fro with armfuls, or dragging behind them on the ground the heavy umbrageous branches they might not carry. Presently Meredith stopped and collected a little bunch of dry sticks and leaves which he heaped together, tucked paper under, and laid crisp hemlock and cedar cuttings on top. Then a match was kindled and fire applied. They all watched to see it, lighting, crackling, smoking,—then the slender upshoot of flame—and Meredith began to pile on pine branches thick and fast. At first rose a thick column of smoke, for the fuel was fat and resinous and the fire had not got under way. Redoubling, soft, black and brown reeking curls, through which the sun shot his beams here and there lighting them up to golden amber. "What tints and what forms!" Meredith exclaimed. And then another light and another colour began to come into the others; tiny up-darting shoots of fire, another illumination rivalling and contrasting with the sunlight which struck the column higher up. Meredith stood still to watch it, while even Flora and Esther were dragging more branches of yellow pine to the fire and throwing them on emulously, till the pile grew and grew, and Maggie was working her cheeks into a purple state with her exertions. Half-a-dozen thick pine branches flung on, and the fire would be stifled and the smoke rise thicker and blacker, with the sunlight always catching the upper curls; then crackling and snapping and breathing, the fire would get hold, get the better, mount through the thick, encumbering piney foliage, and dart its slender living spires up into the column of smoke again.

"Do see how he stands!" cried Flora. "Ditto, why don't you work?"

"I am looking."

"Did you never see a bonfire before?"

"Never such a beauty of a one."

"Beauty!" said Flora, coming to his side to look—"where is the beauty? It is just a good fire. You are a ridiculous boy, Meredith. Go to work."

"Oh, don't you think it is pretty?" cried Maggie, throwing down her last burden and panting. "I think it is lovely! And do you smell how sweet it is, Flora?"

"She is a poor girl without nose or eyes," said Meredith. "Well, here goes!"

Taking hold of the work again, his powerful arms flung the branches and tops of pine on the burning heap, while the girls ran for more. It took a strong arm now, for the fire was so large and so fierce that one could not come nigh it. Meredith kept the girls all at a distance and himself fed the flames, till all the present stock of fuel was laid on, and the wood-choppers went off to their dinner. There was no more to be done then but to watch the show, and as the fire began to lessen and die down, find a spot where the tea-kettle might be set, at the edge of the glowing heap. It was no use to begin to read, they all agreed, till they had their dinner. And soon the coffee could be made; and the four enjoyed their meal as only those can who have worked for it. They had their chicken pie and their roasted sweet potatoes, the omelet they for to-day dispensed with, being all tired. They took their dinner on the bank, there where they could look away down to the river and see the hilly shores beyond on the other side; and Meredith averred that sweet potatoes never were so sweet before.

"Such air!" said he; "and such colouring!"

"And it is just warm enough," added Maggie.

"Well, I have got cooled off now," said Flora, "but I consider feeding bonfires to be hot work."

Then, when dinner was over, and the things packed into the cart, they arranged themselves on the moss in a delicious feeling of resting and refreshed langour; the girls took out their fancy work, and Meredith opened his book. Maggie, who did not trouble herself about fancy work, crept close to his side and looked with fascinated eyes at the strange characters out of which he brought such delightful things to her ears.

"'It was about the year 940, according to the chronicle, that a boy of thirteen or fourteen years old was herding his father's cattle on the waste land not far from Hermannsburg, when there came along a splendid train of armed cavaliers riding their horses proudly. The boy looks with delight on the shining helmets and coats of mail, the glittering spears and the stately horsemen, and the thought rises in his heart—"Now that looks something like!" All of a sudden the horsemen quit the road, which here wound about crookedly, and come riding across country, over the open land where he is keeping his cattle. That seems to him too bad, for the field is no highway, and the ground belongs to his father. He considers a moment, then goes forward to meet the riders, plants himself in their course, and calls out to them—"Turn back! the road is yours, the field is mine." There is a tall man riding at the head of the troop, on whose brow a grave majesty is enthroned, he looks wonderingly at the boy who has dared to put himself in his way. He checks his horse, taking a certain pleasure in the spirited little fellow, who returns his look so boldly and fearlessly and never budges from his place.

"'"Who are you, boy?"

"'"I am Hermann Billing's oldest son, and my name is Hermann too, and this field is my father's, and you must not ride over it."

"'"But I will, boy," answered the rider with threatening sternness. "Get out of the way, or I throw you down"—and with that he lifts his spear. The boy, however, stands fearlessly still, looks up at the horseman with eyes of fire and says—

"'"Right is right; and you have no business to ride over this field, you shall ride over me if you do."

"'"What do you know about the right, boy?"

"'"My father is the Billing, and I shall be Billing after him," answered the boy, "and nobody may do a wrong before a Billing."

"'Then still more threateningly the rider called out—"Is this right then, boy, to refuse obedience to your king? I am your king, Otto."

"'"You Otto? our king? the shield of Germany and the flower of the Saxons, that my father tells us so much about? Otto the son of Heinrich the Saxon? No, that you are not. Otto the king guards the right, and you are doing the wrong. Otto don't do that, my father says."

"'"Take me to your father, my good boy," answered the king, and an unwonted gentleness and kindliness beamed upon his stern face.

"'"Yonder is my father's dwelling-house, you can see it," said Hermann, "but my father has trusted the cattle here to me and I cannot leave them, so I cannot bring you there. But if you are King Otto, turn off out of the field into the road, for the king guards the law."

"'And King Otto the first, surnamed the Great, obeyed the boy's voice, for the boy was in the right, and rode back to the road. Presently Hermann was fetched from the field. The king had gone into his father's house and had said to him, "Billing, give me your oldest son and let him go with me, I will have him brought up at court, he is going to be a true man, and I have need of true men." And what true Saxon could refuse anything to a king like Otto?

"'So the brave boy was to journey forward with his king, and when Otto asked him, "Hermann, will you go with me?" the boy answered gladly, "I will go with you; you are the king, for you protect the right."

"'So King Otto took the boy along with him, that he might have him brought up to be a faithful and capable servant of the crown. Otto was allied in the bonds of warmest friendship with Adaldag, the archbishop of Bremen, a man who was distinguished for his learning, his piety, and a lively zeal for the spread of Christianity among the then heathen Danes and Norsemen. Otto could not confide the boy who had become so dear to him to a better teacher; and so he sent him to Adaldag at Bremen. Adaldag, too, recognised the great gifts which God had bestowed on the boy, and had him instructed under his own eye by the most able ecclesiastics; among whom a certain Raginbrand is especially named, who later was appointed to be bishop and preacher to the heathen in Denmark, and laboured there with great faithfulness and a great blessing. In Bremen Hermann grew up to be a good young man, loving his Saviour from his heart; but also he was instructed in the use of arms and in the business of the state, for Adaldag was at that time one of King Otto's most confidential advisers. And now Otto took the young Hermann into his court; and soon could perceive that he had not deceived himself when his acuteness discerned the boy's lofty nature. Spirit, daring, and keen intelligence shot in fire from the young man's blue eyes; his uncommonly fine figure had been grandly developed by knightly exercises; and, with all that, he was so humble-hearted, and attached to his benefactor with such grateful, touching devotion, that Otto's eyes rested on him with pleasure, and he often called Hermann his truest friend, even called him "his son." But the loveliest thing in Hermann was, that he never forgot his origin: he showed the most charming kindness to those who were poor and mean; so that high and low at the king's court respected as much as they loved him. So he mounted from step to step, was dubbed a knight, attended the king on his journeys and campaigns, and the king even intrusted to him the education of his two sons Wilhelm and Ludolf. Still later he administered the most important offices of state to the satisfaction of the king; and often travelled through the country of the Saxons as Graf, i.e., a judge.

"'That is: The judgment of criminal cases, or the tribunal of life and death, in the whole German fatherland was vested in the king alone. Therefore at certain times the royal judges made a progress through the entire German country. They were called Grawen, from the word graw or grau' (that means, 'grey,' Maggie,) 'because ordinarily old, experienced, eminent men were chosen for the office. These courts for cases of life and death were holden by the Grafs under the open sky, in public, and in full daylight, so that the judgment pronounced could be at once carried into execution. Our chronicle takes this occasion to relate a story about our Hermann Billing, which sets in a clear light the pure character of this admirable man. In his journeyings as Graf, he came also to his native place, to Harm's ouden dorp. It was then long after his father's death; and as head of the family he had distributed his seven manor-farms, as fiefs, partly to his brothers, partly to other near relations. The great honours to which Hermann had been elevated had become the ruin of these men; they behaved themselves proudly towards their neighbours, and even took unrighteous ways to enlarge their boundaries, secure in the belief that no one would dare to call them in question about it, whilst they had such a powerful brother and kinsman. Now, when Hermann, after the accustomed fashion, was holding the criminal court on the Grawenberg (where now the grauen farm lies, half an hour from Hermannsburg) there presented himself a certain Conrad, a freiling, that is, a free man, and accused the holders of Hermann's fiefs, that they had by violent and unjust means taken from him half his farm and joined it to their own estates.

"'Hermann's face, at other times so gentle and kind, grew dark, and with deep sadness but with a lofty severity he ordered his brothers and kinsmen to be brought before him. Conrad's charge was proved to be true, for the Billings could not lie, even if they had done injustice. And what did Hermann? When the acts of violence that his brothers and relations had done were proved, great tears flowed down the cheeks of the tall strong man, and he cried out with a voice which his tears half choked, "Could you do that, and bear the name of Billing!" He said no more, but was seen to fold his hands and pray with the greatest earnestness. Then he spoke: "My brothers and kinsmen, make your peace now with God; we look upon each other for the last time. You are guilty of death; you must die; you have doubly deserved death, because you are of the race of Billing."

"'The priests, who were always in attendance on the tribunal of life and death where Hermann was the judge, came forward; in the grounds of the court they received the criminals' confession, and upon their penitent acknowledgment of their sin, gave them assurance of forgiveness and then the bread that represents the Lord's body. So, reconciled with God, the seven men came back to the place of judgment; and after Hermann had again prayed with them and commended the penitents to the Lord, he had their heads struck off before his eyes.'"

Meredith stopped perforce, for a storm of exclamations burst upon him. "Horrible!" "Frightful!" "I never heard of such an awful man!"

"I think he was rather an awful man," said Meredith. "I have no doubt all ill-doers would have held him in a good deal of awe."

"But his own brothers!" said Esther.

"They were convicted criminals, all the same."

"But don't you think a man ought to spare his own!""A man—yes. A judge—no."

"But a judge is a man."

"I should think it was very disagreeable for a man to be a judge," said Meredith.

"But why?" asked Flora. "I should think it was nice, just for that reason, that a man could spare people he wanted to spare."

"Flora Franklin!" exclaimed her brother. "Is that your idea of a judge?"

"It is my idea of a man."

"But don't you know better? A judge has no business to spare anybody, except the innocent; his duty is to see justice done—he has nothing to do with mercy."

"Nothing to do with mercy! O Meredith!"

"Not as a judge. He is put in his place to see the laws executed."

"Then you think that dreadful old heathen you are reading about did right to have his friends' heads struck off?"

"I think he did just his duty."

"Oh, do you, Ditto?" cried Maggie.

"He did not make the law, Maggie; he had only to see it obeyed. The law was terribly severe; but I think the judge was very tender."

"O Ditto!"

"He was what you call a true man. He was no heathen, Flora. But nothing would make him budge from the right. I think he was magnificent. I wonder how many men could be found nowadays who would be faithful to duty at such a cost."

"You have strange notions of duty!" said his sister.

"I am afraid you have imperfect notions of faithfulness."

"Well, go on. I have no opinion of religion that is not kind."

"The religion that is from above 'is first pure, then peaceable,'" said Meredith.

"Go on," said Flora. "I suppose you would cut my head off, if you were judge, and I had done something you thought deserved it."

"If the law said you deserved it. But I think I would give my head in that case for yours, Flora. It would be easier."

"What good would that do?"

"Keep the law unbroken and save you. Well, I will go on with my story—

"'When the sitting of the court was ended he sent his retinue to find quarters in the other six of his manors, but he himself passed the night at the principal manor-house on the Oerze, which he had himself built, called the Bondenhof, that is, the "peasant's manor;" for in old Saxon Bond meant a free peasant. But what a night that was! Sleep never came to his eyes; he passed that night and also the following day in praying and fasting. When at last, by the Word of God and the talk of a faithful priest he had got some comfort, at least a little, he vowed to the Lord that he would build a church on this manor, the "Bondenhof," which should be dedicated to the apostles Peter and Paul, like the first one built by his forefathers at the Deep Moor, which in the course of time had become far too small. And as with him to resolve and to do were always the same thing, he did not quit the manor till he had laid the foundation-stone of the new church and given order to have the building vigorously carried forward. That was in the year 958.

"'By this deed of rigid, impartial justice, which nevertheless was found in beautiful harmony with a tender and good heart, the honour in which people held him was raised to such a point, that everywhere they carried him on their hands, and at his return to the royal court he was received with wondering admiration. The great Otto folded him in his arms and called him his most faithful knight, who served his God and his king with equal fidelity.

"'Soon thereafter followed Hermann's greatest elevation. Otto had determined, you must know, in the year 960, to take a journey into Italy, in order to compose certain troubles which had arisen through the godless Pope John. But now his beloved Saxon country, out of which Otto himself drew his origin, lay just in the north of Germany; and was bordered on the north and north-east by the Danes and Sclaves, but recently conquered, who indeed were in part nominally Christian, but in part were still heathen, and the whole of them haters of Christianity. Who would take care of Christian Saxony in the king's absence, which it was possible might last for years? Then Otto's eye fell upon the faithful Hermann, and he had found his man. Hermann was appointed to the dukedom of Saxony, so that he might thus supply the king's place and govern in his stead. When this was made known to the good Archbishop Adaldag, who was to accompany the king in his journey to Rome, he rejoiced aloud, and said to the king, "Now we can travel in peace and have no care; for, O king, you can trust him with the land, and I can trust him with my church; Hermann with God's help will protect church and land both." And that is what the faithful man truly did. In the following year the king really set out on his journey to Rome, and Adaldag went with him. Otto set up a stern tribunal in Rome, deposed the godless Pope John, and made good Leo Pope. Five years Otto spent in Italy, and wherever he came he wrought righteousness and judgment, punished the wicked and relieved the innocent and oppressed; being such a prince as Germany has had few. In the year 962 Otto was solemnly crowned kaiser by Leo at Rome, and thus acknowledged as the earthly head of the whole Christian world. During all this time, the Saxons might count themselves happy that they had such a true and valiant duke in Hermann. The Sclaves ventured again to make a marauding incursion, probably to try whether in Otto's absence they could not accomplish something. One tribe of the great Sclavic race, namely, the Wends, dwelt not on the other side of Elbe only, but also on this side, as far as the neighbourhood of Melzen. These Wends, on the hither side of the Elbe, reinforced by a strong party of their brethren from beyond the river, undertook a campaign against Saxony; for they themselves were still heathen and therefore had a hatred against the Christians. This hatred was all the stronger because the Saxons under Otto had vanquished them. In this campaign, so far as they went, they burnt and laid waste everything, and in especial their aim was directed against the churches and chapels and Christian priests; the former were burned and levelled with the ground, the latter were put to death in tortures. So it befell with that first church which Landolf had built at the Deep Moor; it was burned down and entirely destroyed. Eight priests, who served this church and the chapels lying in the neighbourhood, were slain, part of them at once, part of them were dragged to the Wendish idol altar in Radegast, not far from the Elbe, and there slaughtered in honour of the heathen god; those chapels were likewise destroyed. Hermann was just come to Bremen when this news reached him. He rapidly gathered his warriors, came suddenly upon the robbing and plundering Wends at the so-called HÜhnenburg, obliged them to flee with great loss, and pursued them without stay or respite into their own country; whereupon they sued for peace, and promised they would keep quiet and accept the Christian religion. He granted them peace, but went on to destroy their idol temple in Radegast, and then returned in triumph home. He next applied his whole energy to repair the destruction which had been wrought, to rebuild the churches and chapels, and establish priests in them. And the better to secure the land, and especially his own beloved inheritance, against the like predatory incursions, he built strong fortresses, as, for instance, the Hermannsburg' (burg means a castle or fortress, Maggie), 'the Hermannsburg, around which now the people began to build again, who had fled away before the Wends; the Oerzenburg, the Wiezenburg, &c.'"

"Then that is how so many names have come to end with 'burg,'" said Esther.

"Hermann did not build all the castles," said Meredith, "But yes—that is very much how it has come. In those old Middle Ages, when the right of the strongest was the only prevailing one, naturally there were a great many castles built. Indeed all the nobles lived in castles, and must. Just look at the pictures of the Rhine to see what the Middle Ages were; see how the people had to perch their fortresses up on almost inaccessible peaks of rock, where it must have been terribly inconvenient to live, one would think. I suppose people knew little of what we call conveniences in these days."

"Then round the principal fortresses, naturally, the villages grew up," said Flora. "They would cluster round the castles for protection."

"Well, I never thought before that one could see the Middle Ages through the stereoscope," said Maggie.

"Pretty fair," said Meredith. "Well, let us go on with Hermann. 'Through his unintermitting activity all was soon in blooming condition again, and no enemy dared to show himself any more. Before his end in the year 972, he had the joy of seeing the church, the foundation-stone of which he had laid at the Bondenhof, consecrated on Peter and Paul's day. That is this same church which is still standing in Hermannsburg, and in which we hold divine service.'"

"O Ditto! is that church standing yet that Hermann built?"

"And the very foundation-stone that Hermann laid is there to this day. I'd like to see it! We have nothing old in this country. Imagine attending a church that has stood for nine hundred years! He endowed this church with a tenth, and gave almost the half of the fields and meadows of the above-named manor to the Hermannsburger pastor.

"'Of his remaining great deeds our chronicle says little; which is natural, as it is and proposes to be only a Hermannsburg chronicle. In the year 973, the same year that his great friend and benefactor Otto died, died also Hermann Billing, the freeman's son who had come to be Duke of Saxony. About his end the chronicle relates only that he was sick but a few days; that he wished for and received the Holy Supper before his death; admonished his son Benno, or Bernhard, who was his heir: "My son, be true to your God and your kaiser, a protector to the Church, and a father to your vassals;" laid his hands upon his head and blessed him; and then extended his hand to all his weeping servants who were assembled, commended them to the grace of God; and at last prayed—"Into Thy hands I commend my spirit; Thou hast redeemed me, Lord God of hosts." Then he softly fell asleep, and the same wonderful sweetness which in life had given such a charm to his face, in death put a very glory around his brow.

"'King Otto the second honoured the true man's memory by confirming his son Bernhard, or Benno, as Duke of Saxony.'"