s the three sat at table, Rudolf talked to his wife and Katrina about some of the happenings of the day. It was his custom to say little in regard to the castle, or the visitors who came there. For, as has been said before, both he and Frieda thought it better that their child should know the more practical things of life, so the romance of the castle was hidden from her.

This evening seemed to be an exception, though, and Rudolf talked more freely than he had ever done before, while Katrina asked him many questions. She wanted to hear more about the beautiful lady who had stopped and spoken to her of Saint Elizabeth.

“The very first place the lady wished to see,” her father said, in answer to her eager questions, “was the Elizabethan Gallery, and she spent a long time gazing at the pictures. But,” he continued in a low tone, while it was evident that his feelings were greatly stirred, “it was when she stood before the painting in which the holy Elizabeth gives bread to the hungry poor that I noticed the same thing you spoke of, little daughter,—a strange, beautiful light seemed to be shining from the lady’s face.”

Rudolf paused as the scene in the Elizabethan Gallery rose again before him; then as he was about to resume his story, all three were startled by some one knocking at the door. In answer to the summons to enter, Fritz, all white and trembling, came into the room.

“What is it, my boy?” Frieda and Rudolf both exclaimed; for they saw instantly that he was the bearer of bad tidings.

“There’s been an awful wreck between here and NÜremberg. I heard the news as soon as I got down to Eisenach. The town is all excitement, for they say many have been killed or badly injured. Oh, my poor, poor father!”

With that Fritz could say no more, but sank into a chair. Frieda poured out a glass of water and held it to his lips; then wetting her handkerchief, she gently bathed his aching temples, while little Katrina walked over to where he sat, and took her playmate by the hand.

“But,” said Rudolf, reassuringly, “thou art by no means certain thy father has been injured; so take courage! Still, even if thou shouldst find that he has suffered with the others, thou must be very brave and help him bear it. But come, bÜbchen, let us not tarry. I’ll go down with thee right away.”

As the two hurried down the mountain road they could see the city lights far below them. The houses themselves were invisible, having melted into the gray of the long German twilight. On drawing near the town, Fritz, spurred by his great anxiety, broke into a run, and Rudolf had not the heart to check him. In the streets they found much confusion; people were hurrying to and fro. The most of them, however, were making their way to the station, and it was there that Fritz, followed by Rudolf, turned his steps. Suddenly he caught sight of one of his young friends and called to him.

“Do you know who was hurt, Heinrich?”

The boy stopped for a moment and stared at Fritz.

“Why, haven’t you heard that Count von Scholtz and his Excellency the Mayor have been badly knocked up, maybe killed? There have been other, too, they say.” “Who were the others?” Fritz exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” Heinrich answered. “Those were the most important ones; I haven’t heard who the others were.”

But already Fritz had hurried on; and it was but a moment now, until he and Rudolf had reached the station, where a crowd had gathered.

To Fritz the moments of their waiting seemed hours long. But at last some one gave the signal that the train was coming, and all listened with keen attention, while they crowded even closer to the gates.

Presently a succession of low whistles could be plainly heard; then a few moments later the relief train, with its weight of human suffering, steamed slowly into view. Fritz felt his breath coming in quick gasps. Those were anxious moments that he had to wait.

“Take heart, my boy,” Rudolf whispered.

By this time the injured were being lifted carefully from the different coaches, and laid upon the waiting cots. But in the uncertain light shed by the station lamps, it was hard to distinguish any one, the lights flickered so and cast long shadows across the ground.

Suddenly, a murmur went up from the crowd as a stretcher, borne by four men, was carried by.

“There’s Count von Scholtz!” many persons were heard to say. But Fritz gave no heed to this. He was gazing at a tall figure just behind the cot on which lay the injured nobleman, and with a cry of “Father!” would have broken through the line of guards, who stood ready to check the surging crowd, but they held him back. So he and Rudolf could only wait.

Now the cot bearing the Count von Scholtz was lifted to an ambulance; but before the doors were closed, one of the attendants, wearing the Geneva cross upon his arm, turned and whispered something to Conrad Albrecht. The toymaker, in response, went and stood upon the iron step while the injured man evidently spoke to him, for Fritz saw that his father made some reply. Then the ambulance doors were shut, and the wheels began to grate slowly on the road.

Conrad Albrecht began to make his way through the crowd, and as he came forward it could now be plainly seen that both hands were wrapped in linen bandages,—those useful hands, which for many years had furnished happiness to little children far and near; for few were so skilled as he in making toys. And to see those helpless hands smote Fritz and Rudolf to the heart.