Ivo, Valentine’s youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted his father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services indispensable.  With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the timbers as nimbly as a squirrel.  When a beam was being lifted, he cried, “Pry under!” as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar, and puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him.  Valentine liked to see his little boy employed.  He would tell him to wind the twine on the reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to rake the chips into a heap.  Ivo obeyed all these directions with the zeal and devotion of a self-sacrificing patriot.  Once, when he perched upon the end of a plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion of the saw shook his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of himself; he would have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he held on to his position and endeavored to perform his task in the most workmanlike manner.

At last the scaffolding was finished.  Lewis the saddler was ready to nail down the carpets and hanging.  Ivo offered to help him too; but being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire.  His father’s whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.

“Father,” said Ivo, “I wish I was in Hochdorf.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once.”

“You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there.  From Hochdorf it is a long way to Stuttgart, and from there it is a long way to heaven yet.

“How long?”

“Well, you can’t get there until you die.”

Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the other, Valentine passed through the village.  Washing and scouring was going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the houses,—­for every family expected visitors for the great occasion of the morrow.

As Valentine passed Christian the tailor’s, he held his hand to his cap, prepared to take it off if anybody should look out.  But nobody did so:  the place was silent as a cloister.  Some farmers’ wives were going in, carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed out with empty bowls under their arms.  They nodded to each other without speaking:  they had brought wedding-presents for the young clergyman, who was to be married to his bride—­the Church.

As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who quickly folded his hands; Valentine also brought his hands together over his heavy tools and said an Ave.