In the early morning Gertrude awoke, and was surprised not to see her husband. Thinking he might have risen to his work earlier than usual, she arose and went down stairs; the door was bolted, and there were no signs of Johan. She called; no answer: then, becoming alarmed, she roused the children to look for him. The small house was soon searched, but no Johan discovered; when Wilhelm, remembering the garret he had seen his father steal away into, ascended the ladder leading to it--and there, on his knees, his head resting on the rude block of stone, lay the lifeless body of Johan Schmit. The last thing his eyes beheld on earth was _that_ angel;--but who can say on what vision they opened. His wife and children removed to Bonn, to her father; who had saved money, and promised to take care of them. His body was laid in the little cemetery of the little town: his widow placed a wooden cross at the head of his grave, which in time, rotted and fell down; so that the place is now left unmarked by any thing. That stone, on which a human heart had carved itself out, was broken up to mend the town wall. And thus, while a large marble slab, with a long inscription, covers the remains of the great general, the great statesman, the great diplomatist, the great admiral, the great nobleman, and the great beauty--not even a piece of wood or a block of stone tells of the mere existence of poor Johan Schmit, of the little town of ----, on the Rhine. They could work out their idea of life, and the objects for which it was given, by their successful dedication of it to pride, ambition, vanity, and coquetry. _He_ could not; but who can tell what effect that futile effort, that unknown and profitless toil, may have had upon the fate of his soul where it now is? MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[1] CHAPTER XXIX. "THE BREAKFAST AT LETTERKENNY."