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that he could see nothing but the planks of the hogshead. It was old and decayed, and rats were crawling in and out of it. They crawled and ran over Karl and he could not stir. The sun went down; the twilight deepened into darkness. The last boat had gone; in an agony almost maddening Karl lay listening for the oars, and trying to persuade himself that it was not yet too late for one more boat to come back.

A cold wind blew off the water; he had nothing over him but a bit of ragged carpet; under his head an old army coat rolled up for a pillow.

reference to the "four leaf of clover," prevented the nurses from believing him fully

sane.

At last one blessed Sunday, there came to the hospital a young lady who spoke German. At the first sound of the broken syllables, she went quickly to his bedside, and saying to the nurse, "I can speak to this poor fellow in his own language;" she said a few words to Karl in German. The effect was magical.

He lifted himself up suddenly in bed, and exclaiming "Ach mein Gott," poured out such a flood of incoherent, grateful, bewildered German that the best of scholars need not have been ashamed at failing to comprehend him. Karl had found a friend. Every day she went to see him— carried him the food he needed, found out from him the names of his friends, and wrote letters to them in German.

One day he said to her. "You cannot be my girl of the four leaf of clover. You have eyes like the heaven, like mine; but her eyes were like eyes of a deer that is afraid."

A rebel soldier came by and tried to take this away. Karl spoke no word, but lifted his eyes and looked him full in the face. The man dropped his hold of the overcoat, and walked away. Eight o'clock, -nine,―ten, no sound on the deserted wharf except the dull thud of the waves against its sides, and the occasional splash of a fierce rat, swimming away. But Karl heard nothing. He had swooned. The fatigue of the trip, the exposure to the air, the long day without food, and still more the utter loss of hope, had drained his last strength. However, in after days, recall-leaf. ing this terrible night, he always said "I not once my four leaf of clover forget. I say to myself, it is the luck to go to Heaven that it have bring me; and yet all the time, I know in my heart that I am not to die; that I have luck in the over world yet.'

Karl was right. By one of those inexplicable but uncontrollable impulses, on which the life and the death of man have so often hung, the young officer who had had charge of moving the prisoners from the wharf to the transport, was led to return once more to make sure that no man had been left behind.

Karl was not the only one. There were two others who had been laid, as he was, in the shade, and out of sight, and who had been too weak to call for help. It was nearly midnight when these three unconscious and apparently dying men were carried on board the ship. The other two soon revived, but Karl knew nothing until he had been for two days tenderly nursed in one of the Philadelphia hospitals. Even there he had only a half consciousness of himself, or his surroundings. Fever had set in; he was delirious a great part of the time, for two months; even when he was not, his broken English, and his frequent

Then he told the story of the clover, and showed her the creased and faded

It seemed almost a miracle that the fragile, crumbling little thing should not have been lost, in all these months. But no Roman Catholic devotee ever clung more superstitiously to a relic than did Karl Reutner to his "four leaf of clover."

Often in his delirious attacks he would call for it, and not be pacified, until the nurses, who had learnt to humor the whim, would put the paper into his hand.. Now that he was better, he kept it carefully in the inner compartment of his pocket-book, and rarely took it out. It was enough to look in and see that it was safe.

Karl's only relatives in this country were a brother and sister who lived in Chicago. The brother was a manufacturer of fringes, buttons, and small trimmings, and the sister had married an engraver, also a German. They were industrious working people, preserving in their new homes all the simple-hearted ways of their life in the old world. When Karl was drafted for the war, they had tried in vain to induce him to let them put their little savings together to buy a substitute for him. No, no, I will not have it," he said, "my life is no more than another man's life that it should be saved. There are brothers and sisters to all. I have no wife; it is the men with

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out wives that must go to fight." On these two simple households the news from Gettysburg fell with crushing weight.

unalloyed pleasure he had was in the careful training of her mind. Margaret Warren was, at sixteen, a rare girl; she was far better fitted than most boys are, to enter college. But all this learning did not in the least unfit her for practical duties. She was her mother's stay as well as her father's delight; she understood housekeeping as well as she did Greek, and found as true a pleasure in contriving how to make a garment out of slender material, as in demonstrating a problem in Euclid. Until her seventeenth

"Karl Reutner, killed;" only three words, and there were long columns of names with the same bitter word following them. But into few houses was carried greater sorrow than into these. Wilhelm Reutner and Karl were twins. From their babyhood they had never been separated, had never disagreed. Together they had come to the new world to seek their fortunes; together they had slowly built up the busi-year she had been unflaggingly brave, hopeness which their father had followed in Berlin; they lived together; and Wilhelm's babies knew no difference in love and care between their uncle Karl and their father. The sister was much younger; Wilhelm and Karl had laid by their just earnings, to bring her out to join them, and for some years they had all lived in one family in such peace and happiness as are not often seen among laboring people of American birth. No thought of discontent, no dream of ambition for a higher position, entered their heads. Home love, comfort, industry, and honesty-these were the watchwords of their lives, the key-notes of all their actions. When Wilhelm and Annette were married, there was no change in this atmosphere of content and industry, except an immeasurable increase of happiness as child after child came, bringing the ineffable sunshine of babyhood into the two households.

Just before this sad news of Karl's death, a new and very great element of enjoyment had been introduced into Wilhelm's family. Margaret Warren had come to live in his house.

Margaret Warren was the daughter of at Congregationalist minister. Her life had been passed in small country villages in the Western States. She had known privations, hardships, discomforts of all sorts; her father was a gentleman and a scholar, and wretchedly out of place in the pioneer western life; he did not understand the people; the people misinterpreted him; his heart was full of love for their souls, and a burning desire to bring them to Christ; but he wounded their self love, and they offended his instincts, at every step; the consequence was that he found himself at middle age with an invalid wife and six children, a disappointed, unsuccessful man. Margaret was the eldest daughter, and for the first fourteen years of her life, her father's constant companion. The only

ful, content, in this hard life. But as she saw the years slowly making all the burdens heavier; her mother growing feebler, the family growing larger, she began to ask herself what the end would be; and she found no answer to the question. A vague feeling, that she herself ought to find some way of making her mother and her five little brothers and sisters more comfortable, haunted her thoughts by night and day. She saw the secret of her father's failure more clearly than the most discontented of his parishioners ever saw it. She knew things could never be any better. "Oh why did papa ever undertake to preach," she said to herself, over and over; her affectionate reverence for him made her feel guilty in the thought. Yet it pressed upon her more and more heavily.

"Each place we go to is a little poorer than the one before it," she repeated, "and yet, each year we need a little more money instead of less; and mamma is growing weaker and more tired every day. If I could only get a good school I could earn as much money as papa does by preaching. I know I could teach well; and then I could learn too," unconsciously to herself, the desire for a wider knowledge and experience of life entered largely into Margaret's desire to be a teacher. She had uncommon executive ability, and without knowing it, was beginning to be cramped by her limited sphere.

Through the help of a clergyman in Chicago, an old class-mate of Mr. Warren's Margaret realized her dream. It was a bitter day for the little household in the parsonage when she left them. With tears streaming down their cheeks the children clung to her, and her mother was pale and speechless with grief; but Margaret bravely kept back all traces of her own sorrow, and went away with a smiling face. The next day she wrote to her mother:

"Dear, precious, tired Mamma, it would

break my heart to think of you working away without me to help you, and when I recall your face on the door-step yesterday, if I were not borne up by an instinct that I shall very soon help you much more than I could at home. Only think I can already send you seventy-five or a hundred dollars every quarter-half as much as papa's salary; and I know I shall very soon. save a great deal more."

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Oh, papa always speaks to us in German, and mamma in French," said they. "And uncle Karl, too,' added the youngest, with a sad face. "Uncle Karl that has gone to the war."

That afternoon Margaret walked home with the children from school. As they drew near a block of small two-story wooden houses, Margaret's eye was attract

how lovely!" she exclaimed.

Margaret was right. Such a teacher as she had only to be known to be recognized. Her text-book training had been singularly thorough and accurate, but this was the least of her qualifications as a teacher. In the first place she loved children with all her heart; in the second place, she loved nature and truth with the passion of a de-ed by two balconies full of flowers. "Oh, votee. That life could be dull to a human being was a mystery to her; every new discovery in art or science was a stimulus and delight to her; the simplest every day fact had significance and beauty to her; her own existence was rich, full, harmonious, and out of her abundance she gave unconsciously far more than she dreamed to every being that came in contact with her. There was not a pupil in her school who was not more or less electrified by her enthusiasm and love. The standard of scholarship was rapidly raised; but this was a less test of her power than the elevation and stimulus given to the whole moral tone of the school in which she taught. Teachers as well as pupils were lifted to a higher plane by intercourse with her. Strangers meeting her in the street went about asking "who is that girl with the radiant face? She always looks as if she had just heard some good news."

At the end of two years Margaret was the principal of the highest school in the city, at a salary nearly twice as large as her father's. But her ambition was not yet satisfied. She longed to be at the head of a school of her own, where she should be untrammeled in all respects, and free to carry out her own theories. This was her one air-castle, and, with a view to this, she planned all her life. Three hours every day she spent in hard study or reading. Only the best of constitutions could have borne such a strain, but Margaret had come, on her mother's side, of an indomitable New England stock. It was in carrying out this scheme of educating herself more perfectly that Margaret had come to live in Wilhelm Reutner's house. Wilhelm's two little daughters had been in her first

"That's our house. Those are Uncle Karl's flowers," cried both the children in we take all the care of them now he has gone. He said we might." The front of the little house was like a terraced garden. Margaret had never seen anything like it. Every window-sill had its box of flowers, and above the door was a balcony full to overflowing of geraniums, nasturtiums, fuchsias, and white phlox. Margaret stood for so long a time looking at them that the children grew impatient, and pulled her with gentle force into the house.

Annette came forward with a shy, sweet courtesy to meet the unexpected guest.

"We talk your name very much, Mademoiselle," she said; "to see you will be to the father a happiness." Then Wilhelm thanked her with warm fervor for her goodness to the children, and before he had finished speaking, the children, who had disappeared upon entering the house, came running back with their hands full of scarlet, yellow and white blossoms, and showered them upon Margaret's lap.

But my children, my children!" remonstrated their mother.

"Uncle Karl said we might pick always some for a pretty lady," cried they, "and is not the teacher pretty? Did we not tell you she looked like the Madonna ?"

"It was not the first time that Margaret's face had been compared to that of the Sistine Madonna; always, however, with a qualification, for that calm and placid Madonna had far less joy in her face than was in Margaret Warren's bright counten

ance.

"Yes, the children say rightly, young lady. They have done well to bring you

the flowers as our far away Karl would have done," said Wilhelm gravely, still standing before Margaret.

Margaret felt as if she were in a dream. She had come expecting to find two plain, honest working people, to whom she could without difficulty say that she would like to come and board in their family for the sake of learning to speak German and French. Instead, she felt as if she had been received by a prince and princess in disguise; so subtle a power have noble thoughts, simplicity of heart, and love of beauty to invest men and women with a dignity greater than splendor can give.

Margaret made stammering words of her request. It was received with great surprise, but with the same dignified simplicity of demeanor and speech.

"We have never thought that a stranger could come under our roof, and pay for the food," said Annette, with a shade of pride in her voice; "and it might be that our living would displease you.'

"But the teacher is not as a stranger, when Annettechen and Mariska so love her," said Wilhelm, who was on Margaret's side from the beginning. "But do "But do you remember, young lady, that you have never known such ways as are our ways? It would be a great shame to my heart if you were not at ease in my house; and we cannot change."

With every word that Wilhelm and Annette spoke, Margaret grew more and more anxious to carry her point.

"It is you who do not know," she said, "how very simply and plainly I have always lived at home, and it is so that I would wish to live, even if I had much money. My father is a poor minister; my mother has never, in all her life, had so pretty a home as this."

And Margaret sighed, as she looked around at the picturesque little sittingroom; its white porcelain stove was now converted into a sort of altar, holding two high candlesticks, made out of the polished horns of antelopes-a crimson candle in one, and a yellow one in the other, and between the two a square stone jar of dark, blue and gray Flemish ware, filled with white amaranths. Low oaken chests, simply but quaintly carved, stood on each side the stove, and a row of tiles, maroon colored and white, with pictures of storks, and herons, and edelweiss flowers, and pine trees on them, was above each chest. The furniture was all of oak, old and dark.

It had belonged to Annette's mother, in Lorraine. The floor was of yellow pine, white and shining, and gay braided rugs, with borders of tufted worsted balls, covered the greater part of it. Flowers filled every window, and on the walls were prints of Albert Durer, of Teniers, of Holbein, of Raphael-cheap prints, but rendering the masters' works truthfully. In one corner stood a large violoncello, and in another, above a shelf filled with music, hung a violin case wreathed with evergreens. This was Karl's. In the other two corners were odd oaken cabinets with glass doors, and a figure of St. Nicholas on the top. On three shelves were wax and glass and wooden toys. These were the Christmas gifts of many years. The whole room was like a bit of the quiet German Tyrol set in the center of the bustling and breathless American city; but Margaret did not know this. She only felt a bewildered sense of repose and delight and wonder, mixed with a yearning recognition of the beautiful life which must be lived in this simple home.

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When Annette heard that Margaret's father was a poor pastor, her face lighted up. 'My mother also was the daughter of a pastor," she said; "and is it then that the good pastors are poor in this country also?" Annette had thus far known only rich and prosperous ones in the rich and prosperous city.

Wilhelm, too, felt that a barrier was removed between him and the "teacher" when he heard that she had lived as a daughter lives, in the home of a poor country pastor. He no longer feared that she could not be content in his house; and his heart had been strangely warm towards Margaret from the first moment.

"There is Karl's room, which would be sunny and warm, if it were not too small," he said inquiringly, turning to Annette.

"And the big closet with a windowwould it not be that the teacher could use when she would study?" said Annette, who remembered the little room in which her grandfather had kept his few books, and sat when he was writing, and must not be interrupted.

Margaret's face flushed with pleasure. The matter was evidently settled. It was already beginning to be a matter of hospitality in these kindly hearts, and the only question was how they could make her happiest and most comfortable. children danced with joy, and taking Mar

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garet's hands in theirs, they drew her to- hoped we could make you." And with a wards the stairway, saying:

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Come, see Uncle Karl's room; it is the nicest in the house."

It was, indeed, a lovely room, with its one window looking out on the great blue lake.

"It is too small," said Annette, as she stood with Margaret on the threshold; "but there is also this closet," and she threw open a door into a second, still smaller room, also with one window to the east. "Oh!" exclaimed Margaret. "Can you spare them both? That will be perfect. My good friends, I cannot thank you enough.'

Wilhelm looked at Margaret with a steadfast, half-dreamy gaze. The German nature is a strangely magnetic one, under all its phlegmatic and prosaic exterior.

"I have a belief that it is I and my house who are laid under debt by you, teacher," he said, with singular earnest

ness.

So it was settled that Margaret should come to live with the Reutners, and should have Karl's room till he returned from the

war.

delicacy which touched Margaret even more deeply than she had been touched by the adorning of her rooms, he drew Annette away, and left her alone.

One month from this day, Wilhelm, Annette and Margaret were sitting alone in the little sitting-room. The children had gone to bed. It was a sultry evening. Annette had put out the large lamp, and Wilhelm was reading the newspaper by the light of a candle in one of the Tyrolean candlesticks. Suddenly he groaned aloud, dropped the candlestick, and fell back in his chair. The candle was extinguished, and they were left in darkness. Helplessly the two women groped for another light, Wilhelm's heavy breathing terrifying them more and more every moment, and poor Annette crying:

"Wilhelm, oh, my Wilhelm ! He is dead! He is dead!"

Wilhelm Reutner was a strong and robust man. It was the first time in his life that he had ever lost his consciousness. But the fatal words, "Karl Reutner-killed," had flashed upon his eyes with an indescribable shock of surprise and anguish. He had not even known that Karl's regiment was at Gettysburg. He was reading the accounts of the battle with no especial interest, and it was by accident that he had glanced at the lists of killed and wounded. When he came to himself he gasped out, "Karl, Karl!" and then fainted again.

She wished to come at once, but Wilhelm insisted on a week's interval. Annette looked puzzled; she knew of no reason for the delay; but Wilhelm was firm, and Margaret did not press the matter. Seven days later, when Margaret went home again, with Annettechen and Mariska, this time really going home, she hardly knew the little rooms. Wilhelm had painted the walls of a soft gray; he had "Oh! our Karl is killed!" cried Antaken away the closet door, made the door- nette; "it will kill my Wilhelm, too;" and way into an arch, and hung it with cur- she fell on her knees, clasping her hustains of plain gray cloth, of the same shade band's head to her bosom, and calling: as the walls. A narrow strip of plain" But, Wilhelm, thou hast the little ones, crimson paper bordered the rooms; a set and thou hast me. Oh, do not die, darlof plain book shelves on the wall were ing!" edged with the same crimson paper. small table, with a crimson cloth, and a comfortable arm chair, also of crimson, stood in the room which had been called the closet. Under each window he had put a larger balcony shelf, and filled it with gay flowers, such as were on the shelves below.

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Margaret's eyes filled with tears. She turned, and saw Wilhelm and Annette standing behind her, their faces glowing with welcome and hope that she would be pleased.

"Do not try to say that you like it, teacher," said Wilhelm; "we see in your eyes that you are more glad than we had

He soon revived, but could not speak. He turned most piteous looks first at Annette, then at Margaret.

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"Yes, Mr. Reutner," said Margaret, who had taken up the paper, and saw the name, we know it, too. It is your dear brother's name. But you must remember that these lists are often wrong. A great many people have been reported killed who have been only taken prisoners. I do not believe your brother is dead."

Wilhelm groaned. Hope could find no place in his heart. "Oh why did I not compel him to stay at home?" he said "What is this cursed country to us that we should die for it?"

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