Of this union came a family of eight, the two eldest of whom were laid in turn in the quiet grave.  The others survived, and, with the first wife’s daughter, made a goodly family party, which sometimes sorely taxed the resources of the tradesman to provide for, though his business was good and his wife careful.  They scrambled up, however, as children are wont to do in such circumstances; and at the time our story opens the youngest had turned his back upon babyhood, and Marie, the eldest, had reached that pinnacle of childish ambition—­she was “grown up.”

A very good Marie she was, and always had been; from the days when she ran to school with a little knapsack on her back, and her fair hair hanging down in two long plaits, to the present time, when she tenderly fastened that same knapsack on to the shoulders of a younger sister; and when the plaits had for long been reclaimed from their vagrant freedom, and coiled close to her head.

“Our Marie is not clever,” said one of the children, who flattered himself that he was a bit of a genius; “our Marie is not clever, but also she is never wrong.”

It is with this same genius that our story has chiefly to do.

Friedrich was a child of unusual talent; a fact which, happily for himself, was not discovered till he was more than twelve years old.  He learnt to read very quickly; and when he was once able, read every book on which he could lay his hands, and in his father’s house the number was not great.  When Marie was a child, the school was kept by a certain old man, very gentle and learned in his quiet way.  He had been fond of his fair-haired pupil, and when she was no longer a scholar, had passed many an odd hour in imparting to her a slight knowledge of Latin, and of the great Linnaeus’ system of botany.  He was now dead, and his place filled by a less sympathizing pedagogue; and Friedrich listened with envious ears to his more fortunate sister’s stories of her friend and master.

“So he taught you Latin—­that great language!  And botany—­which is a science!” the child would exclaim with envious admiration, when he had heard for the thousandth time every particular of the old schoolmaster’s kindness.

And Marie would answer calmly, as she “refooted” one of the father’s stockings, “We did a good deal of the grammar, which I fear I have forgotten, and I learnt by heart a few of the Psalms in Latin, which I remember well.  Also we commenced the system of Mr. Linnaeus, but I was very stupid, and ever preferred those plates which pictured the flower itself to those which gave the torn pieces, and which he thought most valuable.  But, above all, he taught me to be good; and though I have forgotten many of his lessons, there are words and advice of his which I heeded little then, but which come back and teach me now.  Father once heard the Burgomaster say he was a genius, but I know that he was good, and that is best of all;” with which, having turned the heel of her stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and lay the table for dinner.