“Going away! O Herr Adler—don’t go away! We can’t spare you.”

So said Squib in vehement dismay, catching hold of one of Herr Adler’s hands as he spoke, as though he would restrain him by force.

“Why must you go?” continued the child eagerly. “You are grown up: you can do just as you like. Ah, do stay as long as I do!”

“So that is your idea of being grown up—to do just as one likes,” said Herr Adler, with his amused smile, which always made Squib feel as if he were thinking of all manner of things unknown to the world at large. “Well, perhaps you are not so far out, my little friend; for I do not only like my work, I love it with all my heart. A holiday sometimes is very pleasant and restful; but, after all, it is the work that is the best part of life.”

“Oh!” cried Squib, “it isn’t so for us—for children, I mean. It’s all beautiful out here amongst the mountains; but I can’t bear to think of going back, and 176just having stupid, tiresome lessons to do. It will be so dull!”

“Dull!” said Herr Adler, in a voice which brought a sudden wave of red into Squib’s cheeks; “dull to learn all sorts of wonderful and interesting things about the great wonderful world we live in! Why, what did you say to me the other day about finding everything so interesting? And now you call your lessons dull. Why, that is nonsense!”

“Oh, if you taught me my lessons they would all be interesting,” answered the little boy quickly; “but some people can’t make anything interesting; and then—and then—”

Herr Adler nodded his head several times, with one of his grave smiles.

“Yes, you may well say, ‘and then—and then—’ and stick fast. Can’t you make things interesting for yourself? How is it your games are all so interesting?—your collections and your carving? Why, because you are interested; because you want to learn and to know and to do more and more, and better and better. And your lessons will be just as interesting—no matter who teaches you—if you just make up your mind that you want to know. Not long ago I met in company one of the cleverest men living. It was in a very mixed gathering, and there were all sorts of very different people there. I watched this gentleman a long time. He went from one to another, and again and again I heard him say, ‘I want to know’ this—’I 177want to know’ that. No matter to whom he talked, he had always something to ask. He always wanted to know. You take him as an example, my little friend. You want to know—and you will find nothing dull.”

Squib looked bright and eager, yet he sighed a little nevertheless.

“If I only had you living near, and could see you sometimes, I think I could feel like that. But I’m afraid the feeling will go off by-and-by, when I get home. I feel as if it would be different when I live in another place. If I lived always in this valley, full of such interesting things—like Seppi—I should be so happy! I should love to see the snow come down, and live in one of those queer little chalets, and look after the goats, and carve things all day; and wait for the spring to come again. But one’s own work seems so tame and stupid. I wish we could sometimes change with other people!”

Seppi’s eyes opened wide as he heard the little Herr speak so. He did not say anything, but his face plainly told that he thought exactly the opposite—that it was his own life which was dull, and the little English boy’s full of pleasure and variety. Herr Adler, looking from the one face to the other, and putting down his hand into the depths of his great pocket, said with a smile,—

“Why, I think I shall have to read you a story which a young friend of mine wrote, and sent to me 178the other day, asking my opinion of it. I read it out of doors last evening, and have it in my pocket still. It is funny we should begin talking about our work, for that is what the story is about.”

Squib’s face lighted at mention of a story, as did Seppi’s also.

“Oh, please read it to us,” he said eagerly. “Has it got a name?”

“It has a motto, which perhaps will do as well; I wonder if you are Latin scholar enough to translate it. My young friend has called it—’Via Crucis, Via Lucis.’ Can you construe that?”

“It is something about a cross and light,” said Squib, after considering.

“Yes; it means—’The Way of the Cross is the Way of Light.’ Now, I will read you the story; and then perhaps you will understand better.”

And so Herr Adler read:—
I.

Many long years ago a child dwelt in a quaint old city, and laboured diligently to earn his daily bread. He was fatherless and motherless, and nobody paid much heed to the lonely boy.

Now, hard by that city, just without the walls, stood a great monastery, wherein lived men called monks, who dwelt apart from other men, and thought best to serve God by renouncing those things which men hold dear, and giving themselves to fasting and prayer.

179For many hundreds of years men believed that God could best be served so; and some of the monks led very pious and godly lives. The rich and great of the earth called them holy men, and often gave to them great gifts in money or land, to be spent to the glory and honour of God. And when the monks were faithful to their vows, this money entrusted to them was spent either in relieving the necessities of the poor, or in the erection of churches or other buildings to be used for the honour and glory of God.

At the time of which I speak—long, long ago—when the child dwelt in this city, a stately church was being built hard by the monastery walls, and it fell to the lot of the boy to labour with the masons, and to hand them the heavy hodfuls of mortar as they stood upon the scaffolding at their toil.

Day after day they toiled at their work, and the child with them; and, behold, the days grew very long to him, and waxed more and more wearisome. The hodfuls of mortar seemed to become heavier day by day; and when he saw other children passing by, laughing and singing in their play, his heart cried out against the hardness and dreariness of his own life. Instead of looking upwards, and taking pleasure in the progress of the stately building, and his own humble share in the pious work, he was looking ever earthwards, and his heart grew heavy within him.

Now it came to pass that the monks from the monastery hard by came ofttimes to the place where 180the workmen laboured, and watched the walls of the church rising ever higher and more high, and sometimes worked with their own hands upon some of the beautiful carving in stone or wood with which it was to be adorned; for to these pious men there was no drudgery in work that was done for the honour and glory of God; and they looked forward with longing for the day when the voice of prayer and praise should ascend from these walls, and when men should learn ever more and more of the nearness of His abiding presence in His church.

One of the monks who oftenest came to watch or to work was called Father Gottlieb—and his very name seemed to show something of the nature of the man, for Gottlieb means “the love of God;” and those who looked upon the gentle face, which bore traces of fastings and prayers and vigils, could see that love shone forth from his deep-set eyes, and could hear it in the tones of his beautiful voice.

For Father Gottlieb had a voice that sometimes sounded like a trumpet call; and since he had been dedicated to the service of the Lord from his youth, and had been long resident within the walls of the monastery, the men of the city had come to love and revere him, and even the rough workmen hushed their loud voices, and were ashamed of their idle jests, when they saw the tall form of the monk approaching.

Sometimes as he stood and watched the work, a 181look of rapture would steal into his eyes, and he would utter words which had a beautiful sound, albeit not all of those who stood by knew what was meant by them.

It chanced one day, as Father Gottlieb was looking on at the builders’ toil, that he stood close beside the child of whom I have spoken, and looking up to heaven he cried,—

“Blessed are those who are counted worthy to serve Him! Yea, thrice blessed, for their reward shall be great!”

Then the child, looking up into the face of the monk, took courage to ask a question.

“Of whom dost thou speak, holy father? Who are these blessed ones?”

And the monk laid a hand upon his head as he answered,—

“All are blessed—thou and all thy fellow-labourers; for ye serve a gracious and kindly Master, who will bless all your toil for Him.”

But the child answered and said,—

“Nay, but mine is a hard taskmaster. Day by day do I do my part, and toil in the heat of the sun. Yet ofttimes he gives me harsh words, and never a blessing. I am weary to death of such service.”

But the monk looked down at the child with a searching gaze and made answer,—

“Ah, my child, thou hast not yet learned whom thou dost serve. He is no harsh Taskmaster. He 182is gracious and loving, and full of compassion and tender mercy. And blessed are those who are permitted to toil for Him, and raise up temples to His honour and glory!”

But the child understood him not. He thought only of his earthly taskmaster, and in the face upturned to the monk was nothing but thankless discontent and wonder. Father Gottlieb was gazing upward, where high up in the dazzling blue air the builders were toiling at the soaring spire of the church, and raising his hand and pointing heavenwards, he asked,—

“What dost thou see there, my child?”

Then the child looked, and made answer,—

“I see the builders busy at their work.”

But the monk answered and said,—

“I see the smiling of the Master’s face.”

Then the bells began to sound forth the Angelus, and the monk went back to the monastery, for he had his appointed work to do, and might not linger longer. And the child took up his task again.

Night by night as the child lay upon his rude bed he thought of the father’s words, but he comprehended them not, for his heart was full of bitterness because of the hardness of his own lot, and the thankless toil which he had grown to hate.

“The master is not kind,” he cried aloud. “He is a hard taskmaster. He chides me oft. I never see a smile upon his face. I will no more of his 183service. To-morrow I will go forth into the wide world, and find fresh paths to walk in. I will no longer serve. I will be mine own master.”

For the child thought only of an earthly master, and knew not that he was set in the world to serve the Master in the heavens as well.

So when the day dawned he arose from his bed, while all the world yet slumbered, and wandered away from his home.
II.

Ah, how sweet it was to stand in the early sunshine, free as the sunbeams themselves! drinking in the pure morning air, listening to the glad warbling of the happy birds as they flew hither and thither in the green woodland!

Sweet, indeed, were the voices of nature, and yet the child’s soul was not attuned to their harmonies. For each and every one of them sang of the appointed work given to him to do in the wonderful and mysterious realm of Nature; and the child had made a vow that he would toil no more, that he would be no servant; so the voices of Nature, which it was given him to understand, fell ofttimes upon unwilling ears.

Yet, though he could understand the voices around him, he was not surprised. It seemed as if the dewy morning had woven some spell about him, and as if he were in some sort changed, albeit in very truth that same child who had fled from the city, 184and from his appointed place, that he might be free from service. Nor did his heart misgive him one whit for the thing that he had done.

Climbing up a mountain he presently came upon a brook, rippling down over the rocky boulders. Weary and footsore he sat down beside the clear water, dipping his hot feet into a cool, deep pool, and listening the while to the song of the laughing stream as it leaped or glided down the side of the mountain. It sang of the rocky cavern whence it came, fed by some unseen springs in the depths of the hills, of the avalanches which fell with the melting of the snow from the heights above, of the green meadows in the valley below, towards which it was hastening, and even of great cities through which it must pass, and where it must do an appointed work, before it reached the great and boundless ocean towards which it, like all water, was for ever trending.

But when the child heard this song, and saw how the water foamed and dashed amongst the rocky boulders, instead of choosing the softer spots for its channel, he cried aloud, and said,—

“Brooklet, wherefore dost thou choose such a toilsome way for thyself? See yonder, where the flowers bloom and the moss makes a soft carpet! Turn aside from those cruel rocks, and linger where all is fresh and fair and sweet; and haste not to the haunts of men, where there are toil and trouble! Why wilt thou not rest and play here in this pleasant place?”

185But the brooklet answered and said,—

“Thou talkest foolishly, O mortal child! Not mine the choice. I have my appointed course and work set for me. I do but follow where the Master points the way. Amid rocks and melting snows I gather strength and volume for my journey; but I may not linger to disport myself in green valleys. I have a work to do for the Master, and He it is who bids me ever forward and onward. I am here to do His holy will.”

But the child waxed angry, and said,—

“Hadst thou laboured as I have in the heart of the city, thou wouldst not talk thus. Thou wouldst turn aside and do thine own pleasure. For sweet is freedom!”

“Nay,” murmured the brooklet, “sweet is service for Him. And blessed are they who serve the Master in His appointed way.”

Presently the child, being footsore and hungry, sought a place of shelter for the night, and finding himself in his wanderings at the door of a farmhouse, he craved food at the hands of the good folk there and a night’s lodging. These, taking pity on his loneliness, gave him bread to eat and milk to drink, and allowed him to make his bed amidst the fragrant hay in a loft above the cowshed.

That night, waking from the sleep of exhausted nature, he thought he heard the sound of voices beneath, and looking through a wide crack in the 186floor, saw that the cattle below were conversing with one another, nor did it surprise him, after all that had occurred to him that day, to find that he understood what they said to each other.

“Oh, how my bones do ache!” grumbled a young bullock, who had been working at the plough (as is the fashion in the country in which the child lived), “I have been yoked to the plough all day. And now I shall have but a few short hours’ rest before they take me forth again.”

“And we,” answered a pair of strong white oxen, who were greedily munching their fodder, having been that night brought into their stalls quite late, “we have been worse used than thou, brother; for we were up with the sun, and have been working till he set, dragging I know not how many loads of hay from the meadows to the yard. Truly our case is an evil one! And to-morrow will be like to-day. And after the hay comes the harvest, and nothing but work, work, work from morning till night. Ugh! Ugh!”

“Nay, but is it not a great and blessed thing, my brothers, to share in the beautiful harvesting of the earth?” questioned a gentle-faced brown cow with a white star on her forehead. “Methinks it is a gracious and goodly task to prepare the brown fields for the sowing of the seed, and, again, to help in the joyful ingathering. For the hearts of all men are glad with great rejoicing, and they will bless the Master 187who has sent the gracious harvest blessing; and we who have toiled and laboured will assuredly not lose our share in the gladness and the reward.”

“Ah!” said the young bullock impatiently, “it is easy for thee and such as thee to talk! Thou dost not labour day after day in the heat of the sun, as I am called upon to do!”

“Nevertheless,” answered the meek cow, “I have had many a burden to bear in my time; and I have had my moments of impatience and murmuring. But I have learned to love my bondage now, and to seek happiness in service; for all that we do is done for the Master, and it is His desire that each one of His creatures shall serve Him in the appointed place and way. Yea, and blessed is all work done for the Master. May He accept it and bless it to the world!”

Then the elder cattle bowed their heads and said, “Amen!” but the child started up and cried,—

“O foolish beasts, which know not the power ye possess! Rise up and break the bonds which bind you! Rush forth free and untamed into the wide world!”

But the cattle heeded him not, standing silent in their stalls. Only the swallows stirred and twittered in the eaves above, and the child presently sank to sleep again.

But, when the day broke, he rose and crept away from the farm, for he thought, “If I stay here they 188will perchance seek to make a servant of me, and I am no man’s servant now!”

Nevertheless, in this he greatly erred, for whether he willed it or no, he was born to the service of God.
III.

For many days the child wandered on through the smiling fields whitening for the harvest, and ever and anon as he neared some village he would see bands of reapers going forth to their toil, singing glad songs; or would meet them returning home at the close of the day, weary, yet rejoicing in the glorious weather, and in the bounteous harvest which God had given them. Many amongst them would speak kindly to the child, and he always had food given him when he needed it; yet he would presently slip away from those who would have befriended him, saying in his heart,—

“These are all workers and toilers. Perchance, if I remain with them they will ask labour of me;” for his heart was yet set against any sort of toil, and as he went along and saw how the world toiled and laboured, he rejoiced to think that no man could ask service of him.

Anon he came, upon one hot, sultry day, to a village. The wide street was empty, for all the world was out in the harvest-fields, but the great trees which bordered the road on either side gave a grateful shade, and from the neighbourhood of an open 189door, half-way down the street, came the cheerful ring of a blacksmith’s hammer.

The child, being hot and weary, and disposed to linger in the shade, drew nearer, and, pausing by the open door, seated himself upon an upturned barrow and idly watched the flying sparks, and listened to the cr............