As if by tacit understanding, Christine’s name had not been mentioned during Dennis’s recovery. But one evening, after the little girls had been put to bed, and the lamp shaded, he sat in the dimly lighted room, looking fixedly for a long time at the glowing embers. His mother was moving quietly about, putting away the tea-things, clearing up after the children’s play; but as she worked she furtively watched him. At last coming to his side she pushed back the hair that seemed so dark in contrast with the thin, white face and said, gently, “You are thinking of Miss Ludolph, Dennis.”
He had some blood yet, for that was not the glow of the fire that suffused his cheek; but he only answered, quietly, “Yes, mother.”
“Do you think you can forget her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Prayer is a mighty thing, my son.”
“But perhaps it is not God’s will that I should ever win her,” said Dennis, despondently.
“Then surely it is not yours, my child.”
“No, mother,” said Dennis, with bowed head and low tone, “but yet I am human and weak.”
“You would still wish that it were His will?”
“Yes; I could not help it.”
“But you would submit?”
“Yes, with His help I would,” firmly.
“That is sufficient, my boy; I have such confidence in God that I know this matter will result in a way to secure you the greatest happiness in the end.”
But after a little time he sighed, wearily, “Yet how hard it is to wait till the great plan is worked out!”
Solemnly she quoted—“God will render to every man according to his deeds. To them who by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory and honor and immortality, eternal life.”
Braced by the stirring words of inspiration, strengthened by his mother’s faith, he looked up after a moment and said, earnestly, “At any rate I will try to be a man in your sense of the word, and that is saying a great deal.”
She beamed at him through her spectacles over her knitting-needles; and he thought, as he gazed fondly at her, that in spite of her quaint, old-fashioned garb, and homely occupation, she appeared more truly a saint than any painted on cathedral windows.
He soon noticed that his mother had grown feeble, and he determined to take her with him on his return, believing that, by his care, and the wise use of tonics, he could restore her to her wonted strength. His increased salary now justified the step.
Early in November his physician said he might return to business if he would be prudent. He gladly availed himself of the permission, for he longed to be employed again.
The clerks all welcomed him warmly, for his good-nature had disarmed jealousy at his rapid rise. But in the greeting of Mr. Ludolph he missed something of the cordiality he expected.
“Perhaps she has told him,” thought he; and at once his own manner became tinged with a certain coldness and dignity. He determined that both father and daughter should think of him only with respect.
At the Bruders’ the millennium came with Dennis. Metaphorically the fatted calf was killed; their plain little room was trimmed with evergreens, and when he entered he was greeted by such a jubilant, triumphant chorus of welcomes as almost took away his breath. What little he had left was suddenly squeezed out of him; for Mrs. Bruden, dropping her frying-pan and dishcloth, rushed upon him, exclaiming, “Ah! mine fren! mine fren! De goot Gott be praised;” and she gave him an embrace that made his bones ache.
Mr. Bruder stalked about the room repeating with explosive energy, like minute-guns, “Praise Gott! Praise Gott!” Ernst, his great eyes dimmed with happy tears, clung to Dennis’s hand, as if he would make sure, by sense of touch as well as sight, that he had regained his beloved teacher. The little Bruders were equally jubilant, though from rather mixed motives. Dennis’s arrival was very well, but they could not keep their round eyes long off the preparations for such a supper as never before had blessed their brief career.
“Truly,” thought Dennis, as he looked around upon the happy family, and contrasted its appearance with that which it had presented when he first saw it, “my small investment of kindness and effort in this case has returned large interest. I think it pays to do good.”
The evening was one of almost unmingled happiness, even to his sore, disappointed heart, and passed into memory as among the sunniest places of his life.
He found a pleasant little cottage over on the West side, part of which he rented for his mother and sisters.
With Mr. Ludolph’s permission he went after them, and installed them in it. Thus he had what he had needed all along—a home, a resting-place for body and soul, under the watchful eye of love.
About this time Dr. Arten met him, stared a moment, then clapped him on the back in his hearty way, saying, “Well, well, young man! you have cause to be thankful, and not to the doctors, either.”
“I think I am,” said Dennis, smiling.
Suddenly the doctor looked grave, and asked in a stern voice, “Are you a heathen, or a good Christian?”
“I hope not the former,” replied Dennis, a little startled.
“Then don’t go and commit suicide again. Don’t you know flesh and blood can only stand so much? When an intelligent young fellow like you goes beyond that, he is committing suicide. Bless your soul, my ambitious friend, the ten commandments ain’t all the law of God. His laws are also written all over this long body of yours, and you came near paying a pretty penalty for breaking them. You won’t get off the second time.”
“You are right, doctor; I now see that I acted very wrongly.”
“ ‘Bring forth fruits meet for repentance.’ I am rich enough
