It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in an earthly coil.  The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance.  The delicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barely sufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked out from his soft eyes, when he received his degrees.  The desire of his life was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poor lodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crowned his yet barren life.  To work! to work! seemed now the one call of his being; but, whither was he to go?  There was the childhood’s home, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone and desolate, he could not dwell there.  Gotleib had not forgotten his mother’s lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance.  Even as he kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God’s presence, there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhard enters.  He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feels that he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner.  As professor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of an expert assistant.

Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a few days was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use.

Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man’s full heart for a woman’s sympathy and responsive affection.  He had seen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and he had looked wonderingly into many a sweet face.  But he had not yet seen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke—­who was to be the reflex of himself.  All these German maidens were altogether different from—­and his heart remained unsatisfied in their presence.  He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into their friendly faces.

Sometimes hope almost died out.  But his trust in God seemed to forbid the death of this sweet hope.  Often he said, “the good God would not have created this intense desire in one so wholly dependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it.”  At all events, he thought—­“If the maiden is not upon earth, she is in heaven.”  So he worked and waited patiently.

The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over the lordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg.  Cold, and bitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleib issued out of the Herr professor’s warm house to answer the late call of a sick woman.  Gotleib looked up into those illimitable depths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to the material perceptions of man that this is not the alone world—­the alone existence.  The silent bright stars comforted the earth-wearied heart in which the day’s toil had dimmed the spirit’s perception.  Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and said hopefully to himself,

“There is yet another world—­another life than this.”

And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed.  He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his student days.  But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hard couch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, and the oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered all words unnecessary.