Ah! there comes Blind Rosa with Herr Slaets, her bridegroom! How happy she must be! She has suffered so much! She has been reduced even to the beggar’s staff. For four-and-thirty years she has succored and nourished her soul with a hope that she herself regarded as vain . . . and now he is there, the friend of her childhood, of her youth. Led by his hand, she now approaches the altar of that God who has heard her prayers. Now shall the vow made by the cross in the church-yard be accomplished, and she shall become Jan Slaet’s wife. On her breast glitters the simple gold cross which Tall Jan gave her. Now she listens to the joyful congratulations, to the song and music which celebrate his return. She trembles with emotion, and presses his arm closer to her side, as if she doubted whether her happiness was real. After them came Nelis with his wife and his children; they are all clad as wealthy peasantry. The parents go forward with bowed heads, and wipe the tears of wonder and thankfulness from their eyes, so often as they look upon their blind benefactress. Peterken bears his head proudly erect, and shakes his light locks, which play about his neck. He leads his sister by the hand. But what troop is that? The remnant of the camp which the power of time has laid waste. About twenty men followed the children of Nelis. They really present a singular spectacle; they are all gray-haired men or bald. Most of them support themselves on their staves; two go on crutches, one is blind and deaf, and all are so worn out and exhausted by long years of weary labor, that one might imagine that death had by force brought them again from their graves. Lauw Stevens went first, and stooped so that his hands nearly touched the ground; blind Baes from Plogen supported himself on the miller’s grandfather. These old men constituted the remains of the generation which lived when tall Jan flourished in the village, and by his youthful courage always asserted for himself the first place. After them came the people of the village, men and women, who were invited to the wedding. The train entered the church . . . the organ was heard accompanying the solemn hymn. The younger traveler drew his companion aside in the church-yard. He stooped down, turned round, and presented to the other his closed hand, out of which the ends of two bents of grass protruded. “In such haste? why so?” asked the other. “Proceed,” said the younger; “the subject pleases me, and I would willingly know whether it will fall to me or not.” The elder one drew a bent; the younger let his fall upon the ground, and sighed, “I have lost!” * * * * * This is the reason, good reader, why the elder of the travelers has told you the story of Blind Rosa. It is a pity; for otherwise you would have read in beautiful poetry, what you have now read in prose. But fortune another time may be more auspicious to you.