I have been ill—­the result of being snowed up on the way home from a visit to a forester who had been wounded by a poacher.  The danger is over now, but my eyes continue to suffer.  The forest folk have been very good to me, and much concerned about my progress.  And now I am able to go out again.  To-day I was watching a spider in the thicket, when I saw Aga rushing towards me.  “Ah, it’s you!” she cried.  “You must help us.  We want to live in honour and decency.  The priest won’t marry us.  You can ask for our blessing.”  The next moment Berthold had joined her and they were kneeling before me.  And I pronounced the words which I had no right to pronounce.  I married them in the heart of the green forest.

St. James’s Day, 1817.

Matthias’s widow is in despair.  Lazarus has disappeared.  In a fit of temper he threw a stone at her, then gave a wild yell and rushed away.  “It was a small stone, but there is a heavy stone upon my heart,” laments the mother; “his running away is the biggest stone he could have thrown.”

St. Catherine’s Day, 1817.

Lazarus’ sister found a letter pinned on to a stick on her father’s grave, which she often visits.  It was from her brother, and told them not to worry—­he is “in the school of the Cross.”  And then there was another letter to say that he was well, and thinking of them all.  They answered, imploring him to return, and fixed the note and a little cross on the tomb.  It is still there, and has never been opened.

March, 1818.

Berthold is gone among the wood-cutters, and has got his hut.  A little girl was born to Aga yesterday, and I was sent for to baptise it.  I am no priest, and must not steal a name from the calendar.  So I called her Forest Lily, and baptised her with the water of the priest.

Summer, 1818.

The first Sunday in these forests!  The church is finished, and the bells have summoned the people from the whole neighbourhood.  The priest has come from Heldenichlag to dedicate the church, and the schoolmaster to play the organ.  But some of the folk grumble because there is no inn by the church; and I hear that the grassteiger has applied for a spirit license.  This is the shadow of the church!

In the evening, as I went back to the church, I saw a youth, apparently at prayer, who took to his heels the moment he found he was discovered.  I caught him up and recognised.  Lazarus!  But I could not get a word out of him.  I rang the church bells, and soon the lad was surrounded by the astonished villagers.  He only murmured, “Paulus, Paulus!” and refused to take the proffered food, though he looked half starved.  I took him back to his mother the same evening.

December, 1818.

Lazarus must have been through a miraculous school.  He has completely lost his evil temper, but he refuses to speak clearly of his life during the past year, though he mumbles of a rock-cave, a good dark man, of penance, and of a crucifix.  We have no priest.  I have to look after the church, ring the bells, play the organ, sing and conduct prayer on Sundays.  I hear bad news of Hermann, my old pupil.  He is said to be leading a wild life in the capital.  I cannot believe it.