“‘Does thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee.’ That is in the Bible, to be sure, but it is no remedy for this terrible pain,” sighed the suffering Pastor Seidelman, “for if it goes from my hands I have it in my feet, and if I were to cut off all my limbs what would become of his reverence?” “Ah, Conrad,” said his faithful nurse and wife, and smiled through her tears, “you are always so cheerful in the midst of your sufferings.” “And why not, Catharine? Am I master of this pain, or its slave? And can I not always imagine that these limbs belong to some one else, and that I have nothing to do with them? But the hardest to bear is, that the miserable things keep me here in this arm-chair, whilst every thing without there is so blooming and beautiful; the wall-flowers and harebells are just as fine, or finer in my garden than in Herman & Hübner’s—that I cannot on this glorious evening feast upon strawberries with you all in the arbor, and that you, dear Catharine—this is the worst—must be confined here to nurse me. Has the spring-time of our life all vanished?” “Ah, Conrad,” said his wife cheeringly, and stroked his pale cheeks, “we have so many blessings left—our love and our children. Let us thank God for all—for our joys, and for our sorrows too. Ah, if you could only go to the springs at A——.” “Yes, yes,” said the pastor, “but never mind. The springs are distant and dear. I have given it up long ago. Sometimes, indeed, it seems as if it would be a little thing for my lord count up on the hill to treat his old pastor to the journey. But he must need all his money for the gay life he leads at the capital—oh, no! he is not to be thought of, nor the springs either.”