The country of the Rhine was visited by a wintry tempest from the North Sea. Benighted, Gutenberg, wrapped in his monk’s cloak, little heeded the roaring winds and cutting blasts, as, after destroying the work of years, he bade adieu to Dritzhn’s shop, and hurried homeward. The storm of life, the contest with his fellow-men, was more pitiless to him than the fierce raging of the elements. It was quite dark when Anna, placing a light in the window, stirred the fire, and sat down to await his coming. The supper table was invitingly spread, and the covered dish of food placed by the fire to keep warm. “Why does he not come? May God preserve him from unreasonable men;” and she caught up her work to while away the time. An hour passed, seeming to Anna much longer, when a cricket, warmed into consciousness by the genial heat, hopped out of his covert, coated with dust, and blithely sang. “A good omen!” mused Anna; and shortly after, true enough, there was a stamping on the step, and a shaking of garments; and, springing to the door, she welcomed her husband. “O, it is yourself! come at last. But you look like a huge white bear!” And she gayly laughed as she drew him in, and brushed off the snow. “I was in fear lest some evil had overtaken you, until our dear little cricket piped on the hearth, as if to assure me that you were almost here.” “Yes,” replied Gutenberg, throwing off his cloak, and hanging it on its peg in the corner, “and my Anna and my home welcome me as cheerily as ever.” “We at least ought to comfort thee when the world without weareth such dark frowns.” “Ave, aye, there is need of comfort. But I divine that some one has been here in my absence, and given thee cause of anxiety.” “O, nothing worth minding,” returned the little wife. “Let us sup, and speak of the bright side of life.” “I am puzzled to find it; but thou canst point it out doubtless.” “Shall we forget,” said Anna, “the mercy and the blessing that we are spared to each other, and that no lawless mob has invaded our peace?” “Aye, we do well to remember that it might be worse with us,” was the reply; and having reverently said grace, for a time supper was discussed in silence, for Anna’s last question had awakened grave thoughts. Suddenly the cricket broke out anew with his shrill note. “What does the creature mean?” asked Gutenberg. “Does he dream that it is summer?” “Bethink thee; he is the insect prophet of hope. He is saying, ‘Bright days are coming, never fear!’” “I trust the hearth minstrel is right; he will at least be useful in making me sleep well; his song sounds like a lullaby! But now that supper is over, what of thy visitor?” “It was John Schultheiss’ wife,” replied Anna. “That dark-browed woman! Why came she?”