THE MARTYR’S WIDOW

“God has saved you, dearest,” Lisa answers. She has sunk into a chair, and looks far paler now then when she confronted the Burgomaster and his officers.

“Then let us thank Him together,” answered Carl. He knelt, and in glowing words poured forth his thanksgiving to Him who had just shielded His servants in their hour of peril; and fervently did he pray that He would still be with them, to save them if He saw fit, or if not to strengthen them to suffer all things for his sake.

A brief consultation followed Carl’s prayer. One thing was now certain, if he wished to see the morrow’s sun set, he must look for safety in flight. This was a last and desperate resource, for the country was so completely overspread by the meshes of a network of tyranny, that the unhappy fugitive seemed only likely to run into some fresh danger as terrible as that from which he fled. But no alternative remained; and Carl having made, with Lisa’s assistance, some hasty preparations, went to a secret spot where he had carefully concealed the savings of years of industry, such precautions being necessary in those evil times. He took from the little store a few pieces of gold, telling Lisa to use the remainder for the wants of the family.

“And where will you go?” asked the poor wife, very naturally, as she tried to lay up in her memory the directions he gave relating to various matters connected with their welfare during his absence.

“It is better you should not know, Liesken—but we shall still have the same heaven above us, and the same Father to pray to.” He then added, calmly and sadly, “I am going up-stairs to kiss the children once more.” He went up. Mayken and the infant slept, but little Franz was wide awake, and gazed at his father with large wondering eyes.

“Franz,” said Carl, “thy father is going, but I leave you to a Father in heaven. May you trust in Him, boy, and love Jesus Christ, and help and comfort thy mother. Now, farewell.” He embraced the weeping boy tenderly, kissed the other children without awaking them, and then, with the bitterness of death in his heart, turned to go. Something stronger than a presentiment told him he should see those loved faces no more. But the hardest parting was to come. Lisa met him at the door of the sittingroom. “You forgot this,” she said, putting the little psalter into his hand, “and you say it always comforts you.” Then she added, in a lower tone, and as if even there she feared listeners, “But the Book, Carl?”

Carl hesitated a moment, and then he answered firmly, “Keep it, and teach the children to read and love it. Only for my sake and theirs, Lisa, be careful. Never use it until after nightfall, and be sure the doors are bolted. Then no harm can come to you, for its hiding-place is secure-secure as the grave. Now God be with thee Liesken, my own—”

“And with thee, Carl.” A moment more, and Lisa stood alone, the sunshine of her life gone—perhaps for ever. She carefully re-fastened the door, arranged a few matters which their preparations had left in confusion, and then sat down and wept, until the dawn of a cheerless December morning aroused her to the consciousness that life, with its struggles, cares, and duties, must still go on.

(To be continued)

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