He could not sleep; the room was small and close on that warm night; his pillow was first too high, then too low; and all sorts of horrors haunted his restless brain. George, on the pillow beside him, snored loud and heavily, only rousing occasionally to protest against his brother’s restlessness, and bid him—with a mild but terribly sounding German oath—to lie still and go to sleep. But it was not until near morning that Fritz, having by sheer force of will remained motionless unusually long, had a strange dream. He thought the Christ Himself stood beside him, like as Gabriel Max has drawn Him, only without that look of solemn agony. Gently as a father, tenderly as a mother, He laid His hand on the young man’s burning brow, saying, “Sleep, Fritz, I am watching over her.” What he dreamed next, Fritz could not remember; but suddenly it was broad daylight in the room, and he was sitting up in bed, inspired—not oppressed—by the sense that _something_ was to be done immediately. He dressed himself quickly without waking George, and only discovered, when he was outside in the silent street, that he had mechanically put on his Sunday clothes. “But it’s all right,” said Fritz, “if He’s got anything really for me to do, I’m ready; and if not, I’ll get home in time to change ‘em. Well! I’m hanged if I even know where I’m going, for all I walk so thundering fast. Eh? oh! good-morning to you, Denny,” as the railway porter we once saw conversing with Father McClosky, crossed over the street to meet him. “What’s up at ‘Prices,’ Fritz,” demanded the porter, “that they do be sendin’ Miss Gretchen to New York be the foive-o’clock train?” Fritz’s heart stood still for a minute, then he said coolly, “That’s more than I can tell you, Denny. Did you see her off?” “Sure, I did, an’ mighty glad to oblige her. She axed me to buy her ticket, but that blazin’ young spalpeen that’s managin’ Randolph’s Mill come along, and took it out of my hands intirely, bad luck to him!” “Oh! Frank Randolph has gone too, has he? Then she won’t travel alone, at any rate.” “Indade, and she won’t that, for they got into the same car, and it’s mighty attintive he was, wrappin’ her up, and carryin’ her carpet-bag,” said Denny, looking curiously at the young man. If Fritz had been a genuine American, he would have laughed, even under the given circumstances, at the idea of the elegant Frank Randolph saddled with the pastor’s antiquated carpet-bag, with its faded, once gaudy colors, and oilcloth-covered handles; but, as it was, he only said, still coolly,— “Well, don’t give it away, Denny; it’s private business she’s gone on. I did not know young Randolph was going on this train, though. I say, if I take the six-o’clock, I won’t be much behind her, will I?” “Gets in three hours later,” said Denny, “connects with the western express at the junction; but I guess it’s the best ye’ll do now. Phy didn’t ye make the five-o’clock?”