e chapter, or Ulrich must go to the school.

In four weeks, on St. John's Day, so Benedictus declared, the smith and
his son might announce their names to the porter. Adam must have saved
many florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad shoes and
clothes, that he might hold his own in dress with the other scholars.

During this whole transaction the smith felt like a wild animal in the
hunter's toils, and could say neither "yes" nor "no." The monk did not
insist upon a promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that he
had snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained a prize for
the monastery-school and his stable--a reflection that made him very
cheerful.

Adam retrained alone beside the fire. Often, when his heart was heavy,
he had seized his huge hammer and deadened his sorrow by hard work; but
to-day he let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness and lack
of will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he stood with drooping head, as
if utterly crushed. The thoughts that moved him could not be exactly
expressed in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, where
he would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, rose before his mind.
Once the idea of closing his house, taking the boy by the hand, and
wandering out into the world with him, flitted through his brain. But
then, what would become of the Jew, and how could he leave this place?
Where would his miserable wife, the accursed, lovely sinner, find him,
when she sought him again? Ulrich had run out of doors long ago. Had
he gone to study his lessons with the Jew? He started in terror at the
thought. Passing his hands over his eyes, like a dreamer roused from
sleep, he went into his chamber, threw off his apron, cleansed his face
and hands from the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which he
only wore when he went to church or visited the doctor, and entered the
street.

The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun shone pleasantly on
the shingled roofs of the miserable houses of the Richtberg. Its rays
were reflected from the little round window-panes, and flickered over
the tree-tops on the edge of the ravine.

The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on the beeches glittered
as brightly against the dark pines, as if Spring had made them a token
of her mastery over the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pines
were not passed by, and where her finger had touched the tips of the
branches in benedict