And the old man who related all this shook his head sadly.  “Forgotten!  All things are forgotten!”

And the rest began to speak of other matters; but the youngest boy, a child with large, grave eyes, crept up on a chair behind the curtains, and looked out into the yard, where the moon shone brightly on the big stone that before had seemed to him flat and uninteresting enough, but now had become to him like a page of a large-sized story-book.  For all that the boy had heard concerning Preben and his wife, the stone seemed to contain within it; and he looked first at the stone, and then at the brilliant moon, which looked to him like a bright kind face looking down through the pure still air upon the earth.

“Forgotten! all shall be forgotten!” these words came to his ears from the room; but at that very moment an invisible angel kissed the boy’s forehead and softly whispered, “Keep the seed carefully, keep it till the time for ripening.  Through thee, child as thou art, shall the half-erased inscription, the crumbling gravestone, stand out in clear, legible characters for generations to come!  Through thee shall the old couple again walk arm-in-arm through the ancient gateways, and sit with smiling faces on the bench under the lime tree, greeting rich and poor.  The good and the beautiful perish never; they live eternally in tale and song.”

“GOOD-FOR-NOTHING”

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

The sheriff stood at the open window; he wore ruffles, and a dainty breastpin decorated the front of his shirt; he was neatly shaven, and a tiny little strip of sticking-plaster covered the little cut he had given himself during the process.  “Well, my little man?” quoth he.

The “little man” was no other than the laundress’s son, who respectfully took off his cap in passing.  His cap was broken in the rim, and adapted to be put into the pocket on occasion; his clothes were poor, but clean, and very neatly mended, and he wore heavy wooden shoes.  He stood still when the sheriff spoke, as respectfully as though he stood before the king.

“Ah, you’re a good boy, a well-behaved boy!” said the sheriff.  “And so your mother is washing down at the river; she isn’t good for much.  And you’re going to her, I see.  Ah, poor child!—­well, you may go.”

And the boy passed on, still holding his cap in his hand, while the wind tossed to and fro his waves of yellow hair.  He went through the street, down a little alley to the brook, where his mother stood in the water, at her washing-stool, beating the heavy linen.  The water-mill’s sluices were opened, and the current was strong; the washing-stool was nearly carried away by it, and the laundress had hard work to strive against it.

“I am very near taking a voyage,” she said, “and it is so cold out in the water; for six hours have I been standing here.  Have you anything for me?”—­and the boy drew forth a phial, which his mother put to her lips.  “Ah, that is as good as warm meat, and it is not so dear.  O, the water is so cold—­but if my strength will but last me out to bring you up honestly, my sweet child!”