of his unspeakable agony.
Reinhold often came to him in his dreams and brought him striking
designs for artistic castings, into which Rose's form was worked in
most ingenious ways, now as a flower, now as an angel, with little
wings. But there was always something wanting; he discovered that it
was Rose's heart which Reinhold had forgotten, and that he added to the
design himself. Then he thought he saw all the flowers and leaves of
the work move, singing and diffusing their sweet fragrances, and the
precious metals showed him Rose's likeness in their glittering surface.
Then he stretched out his arms longingly after his beloved, but the
likeness vanished as if in dim mist, and Rose herself, pretty Rose,
pressed him to her loving heart in an ecstasy of passionate love.

His condition with respect to the unfortunate cooperage grew worse and
worse, and more and more unbearable, and he went to his old master
Johannes Holzschuer to seek comfort and assistance. He allowed
Frederick to begin in his shop a piece of work which he, Frederick, had
thought out and for which he had for some time been saving up his
earnings, so that he could procure the necessary gold and silver. Thus
it happened that Frederick was scarcely ever at work in Martin's shop,
and his deathly pale face gave credence to his pretext that he was
suffering from a consuming illness. Months went past, and his
masterpiece, his great two-tun cask, was not advanced any further.
Master Martin was urgent upon him that he should at least do as much as
his strength would allow, and Frederick really saw himself compelled to
go to the hated cutting block again and take the adze in hand. Whilst
he was working, Master Martin drew near and examined the staves at
which he was working; and he got quite red in the face and cried, "What
do you call this? What work is this, Frederick? Has a journeyman been
preparing these staves for his 'mastership,' or a stupid apprentice who
only put his nose into the workshop three days ago? Pull yourself
together, lad: what devil has entered into you that you are making a
bungle of things like this? My good oak wood,--and this your
masterpiece! Oh! you awkward, imprudent boy!" Overmastered by the
torture and agony which raged within him, Frederick was unable to
contain himself any longer; so, throwing the adze from him he said,
"Master, it's all over; no, even though it cost me my life, though I
perish in unutterable misery, I cannot work a