She turned with such an air of modesty, dropping a courtesy so very humbly, and yet with a blending of maidenly dignity, that I felt instinctively to bow to the womanhood before me, quaint and picturesque as it was in its black dress, white sleeves, and wooden-heeled shoes. Giving one glance at the sleeper, Annette slipped out at a side-door; while Franz rising from his straight-backed chair, and dropping on his knees beside the bed, pressed his lips to the furrowed brow. The action seemed to recall the sick man, his breathing was not so heavy and his eyes partly opened. "Father, you are not sleeping easily; let me turn you on your pillow." The voice was low and tender, and the action gentle as a woman's. "Franz!" and the withered hand stroked his light curls. "Franz!" there was nothing more; but oh, what a world of love, of restored confidence! the stiffening tongue lingered fondly on each letter. The room was large, and there was a general air of neatness; but there was a lack of comforts such as we are accustomed to see at home. There was no lamp in the room; only on the hearth a pine-knot nearly spent, sending out now a bright light, then wavering, bringing out shadows on the wall, and permitting us to catch glimpses of the outdoor radiance, the silvery effulgence of the rocks and hills. The sick man slept, and now his breathing was as sweet as an infant's. I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor, his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of silver falling over the coarse white pillow. "Has he been long ill?" I asked. "It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table. "Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I questioned. "Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any other." "Then he has not always liked it?" "No, sir." "May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?" He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz returned. "Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I know you must be hungry." White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of himself. Franz's Story.