“I shall not,” said the tradesman, “stand in the way of his interests or your commands.  I cannot tell what to say to your kindness, Burgomaster.  GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town.”

“GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country,” said the Burgomaster.

The words rang in Friedrich’s ears over and over again, like the changes of bells.  They danced before his eyes as if he saw them in a book.  They were written in his heart as if “graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever.”

“GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town.”

“GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country.”

“He shall have a liberal education, and will be a GREAT MAN.”

Friedrich tried to stand on his feet and thank the Burgomaster; who, on any other occasion, might have been tempted to suppose him an idiot, so white and distorted was the child’s face, struggling through tears and smiles.  He could not utter a word; a mist began to come before his eyes, through which the Burgomaster’s head seemed to bob up and down, and then his father’s, and his mother’s, and Marie’s, with a look of pity on her face.  He tried to tell her that he was now a great man and felt quite happy; but, unfortunately, was only able to burst into tears, and then to burst out laughing, and then a sharp pain shot through his head, and he remembered no more.

* * * * *

Friedrich had a dim consciousness of coming round after this, and being put to bed; then he fell asleep, and slept heavily.  When he woke Marie was sitting by his side, and it was dark.  The mother had gone downstairs, she said, and she had taken her place.  Friedrich lay silent for a bit; at last he said,

“I am very happy, Marie.”

“I am very glad, dearest.”

“Dost thou think father will let the Burgomaster give me a good education, Marie?”

“Yes, dear, I am sure he will.”

“It is very kind,” said Friedrich, thoughtfully; “for I know he wants me for the business.  But I will help him some day.  And, Marie, I will be a good man, and when I am very rich I will give great alms to the poor.”

“Thou wilt be a good man before thou art a rich one, I trust,” said his dogmatic sister.  “We are accepted in that we have, and not in that we have not.  Thou hast great talent, and wilt give it to the Lord, whether He make thee rich or no.  Wilt thou not, dearest?”

“What dost thou mean, Marie?  Am I never to write anything but hymns?”

“No, no, I do not mean that,” she said.  “I am very ignorant and cannot rightly explain it to thee, little brother.  But genius is a great and perilous gift; and, oh, Friedrich!  Friedrich! promise me just this:—­that thou wilt never, never write anything against the faith or the teaching of the Saviour, and that thou wilt never use the graces of poetry to cover the hideousness of any of those sins which it is the work of a lifetime to see justly, and to fight against manfully.  Promise me just this.”