his work, he had found Frida
reading to his wife and boy, and he had lingered for a minute or two at
the door to catch some of the words; but he made no remark, and
interrupted the reading by asking if supper were ready. But often later
in the evening he would ask the child to bring out her violin and play
to him, or to sing one of his favourite songs, after which she would
sing a hymn of praise; but as yet it was the sweetness of the singer's
voice and not the beauty of the words that he loved to listen to. But
notwithstanding, by the power of the Holy Ghost, the Bible was doing its
work--slowly, it may be, but surely; so true is it that God's word shall
not return to Him void.

CHAPTER VII.

IN DRINGENSTADT.

"Sing them over again to me,
Wonderful words of love."

Three years had passed. Summer had come round again. Fresh green leaves
quivered on the trees of the Forest, though the pines still wore their
dark clothing. The song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks
murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound.

In the Forest it was cool even at noontide, but in Dringenstadt the heat
was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even
indoors was excessive.

In a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy
of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. It was an
English one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a
language she was altogether familiar with. The book evidently recalled
memories of the past. Every now and then she paused in her reading, and
the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered
from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other
days.

Sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a
beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed.
The lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her
appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and
scenes.

"Frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend
found in the Forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your
mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?"

"No, dear Miss Drechsler, I do not remember her ever speaking of any
companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they
lived in a beautiful house in England, somewhere in the country; and
whene