“What things were done in Haarlem!  If you had moved there instead of to Antwerp, and you and Ruth....I dare not think of it!  Memories of those days torture me in many a sleepless hour, and there is much that fills me with bitter remorse.  But I am permitted to live, and it seems as if I were new-born, and henceforth existence and doing good must be synonymous to me.  You were right to be angry....”

“That is all forgiven and forgotten,” interrupted the smith in a resonant voice, pressing his son’s fingers with his hard right hand.

These words affected the convalescent like a strengthening potion, and when the hammers again moved in the smithy, Ulrich was no longer satisfied with his idle life, and began with Ruth to look forward to and discuss the future.

The words:  ‘fortune,’ ‘fame,’ ‘power,"’ he said once, “have deceived me; but art!  You don’t know, Ruth, what art is!  It does not bestow everything, but a great deal, a great deal.  Meister Moor was indeed a teacher!  I am too old to begin at the beginning once more.  If it were not for that....”

“Well, Ulrich?”

“I should like to try painting again.”

The girl exhorted him to take courage, and told his father of their conversation.  The smith put on his Sunday clothes and went to the artist’s house.  The latter was in Brussels, but was expected home soon.

From this time, every third day, Adam donned his best clothes, which he disliked to wear, and went to the artist’s; but always in vain.

In the month of February the invalid was playing chess with Ruth,—­ she had learned the game from the smith and Ulrich from her,—­when Adam entered the room, saying:  “when the game is over, I wish to speak to you, my son.”

The young girl had the advantage, but instantly pushed the pieces together and left the two alone.

She well knew what was passing in the father’s mind, for the day before he had brought all sorts of artist’s materials, and told her to arrange the little gable-room, with the large window facing towards the north, and put the easel and colors there.  They had only smiled at each other, but they had long since learned to understand each other, even without words.

“What is it?” asked Ulrich in surprise.

The smith then told him what he had provided and arranged, adding:  “the picture on the standard—­you say you painted it yourself.”

“Yes, father.”

“It was your mother, exactly as she looked when....She did not treat either of us rightly—­but she!—­the Christian must forgive;—­and as she was your mother—­why—­I should like.... perhaps it is not possible; but if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she looked when a young wife....”

“I can, I will!” cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement.  “Take me upstairs, is the canvas ready?”

“In the frame, firmly in the frame!  I am an old man, and you see, child, I remember how wonderfully sweet your mother was; but I can never succeed in recalling just how she looked then.  I have tried, tried thousands and thousands of times; at—­Richtberg, here, everywhere—­deep as was my wrath!”