A long time ago, in a little village on the banks of the Rhine, lived the young boy Karl, in the low, rude cottage of his father, Hans Heidermann, the carpenter.

Karl was the second son in a family of ten children, all boys but the baby in the cradle—the little, blue-eyed Ethel, the pet and darling of the household.

The good Lord had sent to the cottage plenty of children, "the poor man's blessing;" and in their youthful days, when Hans and his good wife were strong and full of hope, the little ones were greeted with smiles of love.

Later in life, when the mother found that, with all her patient labor, the tiny feet must go unclad, and eat little as she possibly could, the supper was not only poor but very scanty, the boy Julian and baby Ethel were wept over at their coming, yet with tears so full of compassionate tenderness that the mother's love shone through them more sweetly than through the sunshine of smiles that dawned upon their first baby.

The youthful days of Karl were passed in toil, and though the natural joyousness of childhood would sometimes bubble up and overflow, the mantle of care fell upon him very early.

When he was only sixteen, he was quite a man in his ways, and able to contribute not a little to the comfort and support of the family, and he, more than all the rest, was ever ready to lighten the burden of the mother's weariness and cares.

When Karl was eighteen years old, he was guilty of a great piece of folly for a poor boy, though I am sure he was not to blame. It was the pretty, violet eyes and sweet voice of the young maiden Chimlein that made him so much in love with her.

Poor, foolish Karl! with nothing but his handsome boyish face and honest German heart to give her, even his strong willing hands still belonged to the father and mother.

Poor, foolish Karl, to be in love! But he was very hopeful! The brothers were growing strong, and even now all but the little Julian, could add something to the family store. What brightness, wealth, and happiness might not two years bring them all.

One evening, about this time, Karl received from the merchant, his employer, for a successful month's work, quite a present over his usual pay, as a reward for his faithful industry.

He was very happy as he started homeward, and, looked smilingly upon his patched clothes, thinking "Now I shall be able to buy the new suit I need so much, and I can take Chimlein the beautiful, to hear the rare music that she loves so well, and she will store it away in her bird-like throat, and some day it will gush forth in loving songs in our own cottage home." Then he sung gay snatches of his favorite opera—for even the peasantry of Germany are born musicians—and, looking at the sunshine as it danced upon the bright waters of the Rhine, he blessed the good Lord for the brightness, beauty, and happiness of life.

Soon the shadow of the cottage fell upon him, and he entered to find tears dimming the eyes of the mother as she went silently about her work. She wiped them hastily away, but Karl had seen them, and all his bright dreams melted at the sight of the dear, pale face, shadowed by age and sorrow.

Throwing his strong arm round her, he softly said, "What ails thee, mother?"

Then she told him how an old debt of the father's became due on the morrow, and how she feared, she knew not what, because there was no money to pay it.

So Karl put his hand into his bosom and drew forth the treasure that was to bring him so much happiness, and placing it in his mother's hand, said: "Take it, mother, dear;" and before she could reply, he had gone out into the soft, summer air, down to the banks of the dear Rhine River.

The sun had sunk in clouds of crimson and gold, and the gray twilight cast its cold shadows upon the waters, and Karl's heart had grown very heavy as he thought of the sweet-voiced Chimlein, and her disappointment. "But 'twas for mother," he said. "Poor mother, how pale she looked, her eyes wet with tears."

He walked on, silently, looking with dreamy eyes out of the dim present into the untried future.

One year after, he stood by the mother's new made grave, and, while his heart swelled with sorrow, he blessed God that he had been to his care-burdened mother a loving and dutiful son. And then came the thought of the old clothes that, for her sake, he had worn so long, and he could have kissed the dear old clothes, grown so patched and threadbare, for her sake, the dear, dead mother.

After the mother's death, the family was broken up.

The little Ethel and Julian went away to another part of the country, to live with a good aunt, who was very kind to them, and the younger brothers went to trades, and only Karl and the father remained at the cottage. Then it was that Karl brought home the sweet-voiced Chimlein to be the angel of his house.

"The dear father is lonely," she would say, as with her quiet words, and small, white hands she smoothed his pathway down the rugged vale of dim old age.

The good God only lends us the presence of his angels for a short time, and in the spring-time he called Chimlein from her home by the blue Rhine River, to her home in heaven, the golden, and from the heart of Karl, her husband, to the bosom of the blessed Mother.

The cottage was very dark and lonely after Chimlein went to heaven. Karl went out to his work with a sad heart, and returned in silence to sit by his desolate hearth-stone, till the fire went out in the midnight darkness.

The father (now an old man with locks white as the driven snow) sat during the long, summer days by the little willow cradle, and sang in the shrill treble of broken and sorrowful old age, to Chimlein's little one; or, when the babe was full of playful innocent life, he would take it down to the banks of the clear Rhine, to revel in the sunshine and listen to the voice of the waters.

To the old man's desolate heart, that child was a priceless blessing, and in his eyes she was the most beautiful of all the good Lord's fair creation.

When she was three months old, he dressed her in snowy white, and bore her to the baptismal font, where she received the name of Gretchen, though to the grandfather she was always "mein schÖnes kind" (my beautiful child).

A circle of golden curls played around her baby face, and the violet eyes of her mother shone clearly in the fair light of the morning, as she looked steadily into the face of the priest who took her in his arms and blessed her with the baptismal water which consecrated her "a child of God and an heir of heaven."

The old grandfather gazed wonderingly at the child, as in the softened light of the sunshine stealing through the cathedral windows she looked so like the rare picture of the divine Christ-child.

"She is even now a bird of Paradise," whispered tremblingly the old man, as he received the little one from the priest's hands. "The angel soul is looking out from her violet eyes, and heaven's blessed light falls like a halo of glory upon her golden curls."

With a shudder, the old man sunk away into the shadow until the sunshine had faded from her hair, and rocking her to and fro, while a master's hand sent rare, glorious music from the grand cathedral organ, he watched the violet eyes till they closed, and the rich brown lashes rested upon her fair baby cheeks. One little soft hand was tangled in the old man's beard, and the tone of her gentle breathing told him that his darling slept the pure, refreshing sleep of healthful infancy, and once more his heart was calm and happy.

Karl loved the beautiful child; but when he looked at her, and saw her mother's eyes reflected in the dewy light of hers, a deep sadness filled his heart, and often he turned quickly away to hide the glistening of his eyes, and drew his rough hand over his face to drive back the unshed tears.

"Poor little motherless thing," he would say: "If it was only a boy!" "Poor little daughter, ever too much you will need a mother's care." Then he would snatch up his hat and go out to the banks of the blue Rhine, where the body of the angel Chimlein rested. To the man, nothing is so dear as the pure, true woman of his heart.

Two summers had passed over the head of the little Gretchen, making her more charming than ever, with all the winsome ways of her innocent childhood.

The grandfather was becoming every day more infirm in body, and every day brought his mind nearer to the innocent child who was the darling of his heart. Nearer and nearer to heaven, the golden, he walked with faltering steps through the darkened vale of second childhood.

When at home, Karl would watch sorrowfully over these two children, the old man and the beautiful child; but when he was away at his work, they were a constant care upon his mind.

In passing his neighbor's door, Karl often noticed Elizabeth, the thrifty daughter of the house. He saw that her restless hands were always busy; not one speck of dust escaped her sharp, black, eye.

Though her voice was loud and shrill (Karl knew too well he could never find another sweet-voiced Chimlein) he hoped her heart was kind, and he thought she might take better care of the father and the little Gretchen than he could. So he asked her to be his child's mother, his father's daughter, and the mistress of his cottage.

Elizabeth felt keenly that he was no ardent lover; but he was her first, and might be her last; so with no more intense feeling than a desire to secure a home for herself and a provider for her wants, she consented to be his wife, and become mistress of the cottage.

Elizabeth was full of energy, and after she went to the cottage there was a great change in its appearance. Every nook and corner was made thoroughly clean, the rents in the curtains were neatly mended, the bits of carpet were all washed and spread down upon the sanded floor, and there was always a clean shirt for Karl when he came from his work, and a button, was never known to be missing.

Altogether there was not a more notable housewife in all the burg than Elizabeth. But her shrill voice grated sharply upon the sensitive ear, and, worse than all, it seems as though the old grandfather and the little Gretchen were always in her way.

From morning till night the old grandfather had a vile pipe in his mouth, and the smoke made every thing black and dirty. She then would look at her clean curtains and whitewashed walls, and frown. He was continually dropping the ashes about, and sometimes would even spit upon the floor, which was too much for mortal woman to bear; and then there was no end to the trouble the little Gretchen made her in a thousand ways.

To think that she, who always disliked children, should be obliged to take care of another woman's child!

At first she would bite her lips and choke down the angry words that strove for utterance, but in her heart she called them "The Two Good-for-Nothing's," and would cast such angry looks upon them that in their shrinking sensitiveness they would steal away to the banks of the blue Rhine and try to forget Elizabeth and their trouble. But alas! poor unfortunates! too often they would return with torn or soiled clothes, and then the mistress would be more angry than ever.

It was only for a short time that Elizabeth confined her anger to black looks. Before she had been in the cottage two months, her sharp voice would ring its angry changes upon the Two Good-for-Nothings, as she now loudly called them, and both the grandfather and little Gretchen went about silent and trembling, like two culprits who feared detection and punishment.

She would have them to go to bed before Karl returned in the evening, for she was very careful to conceal her unkind treatment of them from him. He was obliged to go very early in the morning to his work, and saw but little of them, and as the cottage looked clean and cheerful when he returned, he thought they were well cared for.

Sometimes, for whole days the old grandfather and the little one would wander on the banks of the beautiful Rhine River, and in her sweet infantile voice she would rival the songs of the birds.

So wonderful a development of voice in the child was a marvel to all who heard her, and the fond old man's heart swelled with pride as the neighbors gathered round to hear her sing. Every one loved them but the mistress, and they were always sure of a welcome at the noon-day meal from any of the neighbors. The silver-haired old man was "grandfather" to them all, and the little child "mein schonest liebes."

The mistress did not object to their long strolls from home. "The Good-for-Nothings" were only in the way; it did her good to have them out of her sight a few minutes; while they, poor innocents, escaped many a rough scolding, and the little child many a blow from the hard hand of the mistress.

How they enjoyed those days together.

As Gretchen grew older, and the grandfather more feeble, she would lead him by the hand and run to the neighbor's for a coal to light his pipe, saying: "The dear grandfather must smoke." Then they would sit down on the green bank, and with the smoke-wreaths curling above his head the grandfather would tell old legends and fairy tales to half the children in the village, and "little Golden Hair," as the children called her, would sing to them.

One day, when Gretchen was about five years old, they returned from their accustomed stroll to find a new inmate at the cottage, and Karl called them to look at the little sister baby. The old grandfather looked sad, for he could not love the mistress's child as he did Chimlein's, and he feared it would bring yet greater trouble to his little Gretchen. But the unsuspecting child opened her large violet eyes full of wonder and delight, thinking, as all little girls do, there is nothing in the world so pretty as a baby.

But that baby was her destiny.

No more days by the dear Rhine River. No more songs with the village children, or fairy tales told under the waving trees with the fresh air blowing round them. But the little, golden-haired child became a fixture by the cradle. The baby would not go to sleep unless soothed by Gretchen's voice, which now was oftener full of subdued pathos than childish joyousness.

The grandfather, too, had his hours of care and watching. But day by day he was drawing nearer the dark river that rolled between him and heaven the golden. His earthly love seemed all centered in Gretchen. Karl he seldom saw except on Sundays, and then, in his rough manhood, though he was always kind to his father, he seemed a great way off with the harsh Elizabeth for his wife.

Only Golden Hair, knew and shared the old man's cares and sorrows. At night she slept in his bosom and always rested in his heart.

The two "Good-for-Nothings!"

Alike sufferers from the mistress's harshness, how they loved each other, though they dared not show it when the mistress was near. She was angry at such nonsense, as she termed their holy affection.

The winter after Gretchen was six years old, was very cold and stormy. The blue waters of the Rhine had grown black and sullen. In the cottage times were not improved. The baby was teething. The mistress was not well, and visited her accumulating ills upon the poor Good-for-Nothings.

She would not have allowed Gretchen to sing at all, but for the baby, of whom the little girl now had nearly the whole charge. And very thin and pale she looked, with the rich flush of her golden curls falling upon her white forehead, and her violet eyes large and languid; but her little hands were red and hard, poor little hands that had so much to do.

Child as she was, the woman was growing in her heart, and with tenderest care she watched the grandfather who had no one but her who understood his sensitive feebleness, and loved to care for him. Many times in the day, when the mistress was out of the room, she would put her little hand in his, and kiss him. Only the sick and sorrowful know how sweet was the pressure of that loving hand.

One day, in that miserable winter, the baby had been more troublesome than usual, the mistress more unkind and exacting, and the Two Good-for-Nothings more silent and depressed. Gretchen had been whipped because she did not sing; but how could she, when the grandfather's chair had been moved to be out of the way, into a corner far from the fire, and he was trembling with cold; and, more than this, Gretchen saw by his heavy eyes and pale face that he was ill—how much, poor child, she did not know.

After a time the baby slept, and the mistress left the room. Then Gretchen stole to the old man's side, and threw her arms round his neck, and begged him to draw near the fire.

"Never mind, Golden Hair," said the old man, "grandfather is going where he will never be sick or cold any more. But, oh, mein kleines kind (my little child), 'tis thou that break'st my heart. To leave thee alone! mein liebes, mein schonest."

Tears gathered in the dim eyes of the old man, and the cold, withered hand stroked lovingly the golden hair of the little maiden, who looked wonderingly at him with her large, violet eyes glistening, and the big tears rolling down her pale face.

"Mein kleines Gretchen, she'll whip you, and call you Good-for-Nothing when your old grandfather's gone; but sing, mein liebes, sing all you can; the good Lord will hear the voice of his own. Oh! to leave you, kleina, 'tis so hard! so hard!" And the old man rocked himself to and fro, weeping and trembling with cold and sickness.

The little Gretchen threw her arms around his neck, kissing his tears, and, half choking with sobs, she whispered: "You'll smoke, grandfather, darling; your little Golden Hair'll get your pipe." Little child! she could think of nothing else, and she must do something for the dear grandfather; and often before, the pipe had been a great solace to him, when the mistress had been unkind; so the little nimble feet ran for it, and brought it to him filled, and with the red coal glowing in the bowl.

Just then the baby cried out, and Elizabeth entered in time for her sharp, black eyes to take in the whole scene.

Snatching the pipe angrily from the little child's hand, she threw it against the chimney, breaking it into many pieces. "I'll teach you to leave the baby to be playing with fire. Take that, Good-for-Nothing." And she gave Gretchen a sharp blow upon the little golden-crowned head, and pushed her toward the cradle, adding, "see if you can sing now!"

And Gretchen tried hard to obey, but 'twas a wail, broken with sobs, that rose from the bursting heart of the child, through the winter cold air of the Rhine land, to the feet of the good Lord who took little children in his arms and blessed them.

That night when little Gretchen was sleeping, her weary head resting on the grandfather's bosom, his troubled spirit passed alone and silently through the dim portals of the dusky way, and, entering the pearly gates, found perfect rest in heaven the golden.

In the early morning, Karl was awakened by a wild, piteous cry.

'Twas little Gretchen. The grandfather was cold, icy cold, and she could not warm him, though she had rubbed him till her own little hands were like ice, and had pressed her soft, warm cheek to his.

She could not warm him! He could not speak to her—not one word from the dear grandfather for the poor, little, motherless child, now the lone "Good-for-Nothing."

When Karl found that the grandfather was really dead, with the big tears rolling down his cheek, he took the little Gretchen in his arms, and wrapping a blanket round her, walked to and fro, trying to soothe her.

He loved the old father and the little daughter. But the poor man's lot leaves little time for endearing cares. He must work early and late to procure even coarse food and clothes for his family.

Little Gretchen's bitter, but uncomplaining grief brought tears to the eyes of the kind neighbors, as they looked upon her sad, pale face, and large eyes, so filled with the shrinking loneliness of her sensitive nature. Even the mistress's heart was touched by the hopeless agony of the little one, and while the grandfather lay dead in the house, she was more gentle and kind to her than she had been before.

In a few days they buried him under the trees, by the blue Rhine River. By Chimlein's grave, where he had so often listened to the sweet voice of his little Golden Hair, the poor old "Good-for-Nothing" sleeps his last, cold sleep.

Very wearily rolled now the years for Gretchen.

As she grew older, the household drudgery fell upon her. The mistress seldom gave her a pleasant look or word, and no matter what went wrong with the house or children, the burden of all fell upon the poor "Good-for-Nothing."

The mistress had now four children, of whom Gretchen had almost the entire charge; and, at the age of fourteen, in the frail form of a delicate child, she bore the heart of a subdued and sorrowful woman.

She had had no opportunities for improvement, always at work in the cottage; yet her voice, a marvel in infancy, increased wonderfully in strength and clearness. It was a God's gift, and she sung with matchless sweetness and taste, heaven taught.

One day, as Gretchen sat rocking the youngest child in her arms, and singing as only she could, there came a knocking at the door. The mistress opened it, and saw a tall, sweet-faced lady dressed in deep mourning.

There was a fine carriage at the gate, and she knew by the lordly coat-of-arms, her visitor was no ordinary person, so she dropped a low courtesy and waited.

"Was it you, my good woman, I heard singing just now?" said the lady.

"Ah, no, madam, 'twas only Gretchen, the Good-for-Nothing, putting the baby to sleep."

"But the Good-for-Nothing can sing beautifully, and I would hear her again."

So the lady entered the cottage, to find Gretchen bending over the now sleeping child, with the flush of shame crimsoning her cheeks, for she had heard Elizabeth's coarse reply. But she rose and courtesied to the lady, and, as she did so, the old broken comb fell from her hair, and a shower of rich golden curls covered her neck and shoulders.

Poor little Gretchen! How the accident confused her. She did not know that she looked very beautiful, and that her modesty was an inexpressible charm.

"Sing again, my child," said the lady, kindly.

And Gretchen sang a little German song, full of pathos and beauty; and though her voice trembled with agitation, it lost none of its pure richness.

Tears came to the lady's eyes, and, as if speaking to herself, she said:—

"My little Adela was about her age; these golden curls are like hers, and she sang sweetly, but not like this child."

Then the lady drew Gretchen to her, and asked her if she would be her little girl, and love her.

She told her how her own little daughter had died, and Gretchen told her of the dear grandfather; then she threw her little, weary arms around the fair lady's neck, and they wept together—the childless mother and the motherless child.

Elizabeth was very angry when she found the lady wanted to adopt Gretchen. "The miserable Good-for-Nothing," after all the trouble she had had with her, and just as she was beginning to be able to "earn her salt." And she was to be the rich lady's child, while her own children must remain in poverty. 'Twas too much, and she determined to prevent it.

She went out to meet Karl, and told him her querulous story.

But Karl loved his child, and when the lady told him she would make Gretchen as her own child and love her dearly, he kissed his little daughter, and placing her hand in the good lady's, told her he had never been able to do for Gretchen as his heart desired, and he blessed the good Lord that she had at last found a friend who would give her a mother's care and love.

So they went away together, the high-born Countess and the beautiful peasant child.

The little Good-for-Nothing grew up to be a lovely and accomplished woman. Her matchless voice became the marvel of the gifted and high-born, as it had once been of the village peasantry.

After she had arrived at a proper age she married the countess's nephew, who had loved her tenderly for years, and lived to see her children's children noble, prosperous, and happy.

In her prosperity, Gretchen did not forget her toil-burdened father, and even Elizabeth and her children shared the favors heaped upon him by the once despised little Good-for-Nothing.