sixty
years; but he cannot be so old. Yet he wears glasses and walks feebly; he
has probably never had in any one day of his life enough to eat. But I do
not know any man, and I know only one woman, who has such a look of
radiant good-cheer and content as has this poor shoemaker, Anton Grasl.

In his window are coarse wooden boxes, in which are growing the common
mallows. They are just now in full bloom,--row upon row of gay-striped
purple and white bells. The window looks to the east, and is never shut.
When I go out to my breakfast the sun is streaming in on the flowers and
Anton's face. He looks up, smiles, bows low, and says, "Good-day, good my
lady," sometimes holding the mallow-stalks back with one hand, to see me
more plainly. I feel as if the day and I had had benediction. It is always
a better day because Anton has said it is good; and I am a better woman
for sight of his godly contentment. Almost every day he has beside the
mallows in the boxes a white mug with flowers in it,--nasturtiums,
perhaps, or a few pinks. This he sets carefully in shade of the thickest
mallows; and this I have often seen him hold down tenderly, for the little
ones to see and to smell.

When I come home in the evenings, between eight and nine o'clock, Anton
is always sifting in front of the door, resting his head against the wall.
This is his recreation, his one blessed hour of out-door air and rest. He
stands with his cap in his hand while I pass, and his face shines as if
all the concentrated enjoyment of my walk in the woods had descended upon
him in my first look. If I give him a bunch of ferns to add to his
nasturtiums and pinks, he is so grateful and delighted that I have to go
into the house quickly for fear I shall cry. Whenever I am coming back
from a drive, I begin to think, long before I reach the house, how glad
Anton will look when he sees the carriage stop. I am as sure as if I had
omniscient sight into the depths of his good heart that he has distinct
and unenvious joy in every pleasure that he sees other people taking.

Never have I, heard one angry or hasty word, one petulant or weary cry
from the rooms in which this father and mother and six children are
struggling to live. All day long the barefooted and ragged little ones
play under my south windows, and do not quarrel. I amuse myself by
dropping grapes or plums on their heads, and then watching them at their
feast; never have I seen them dispute or struggle in th