So, working steadily year after year, as he had done, with almost no expenses of living, Pickaway thought he must have laid by quite a fortune, and when the Widow Massey, poverty-stricken though she was, made up her mind to send her little daughter—her only child—the poor, weak, crippled little Alice, who went every Sunday to the church, and listened with such deep delight to the strains of the great organ—when the Widow Massey made up her mind to send her daughter to the music-master, and give her this one pleasure, that it might brighten somewhat the life so early blighted, all the people thought he would surely take the child for nothing. But he did not—he took the money, the full amount; and, if the people made sarcastic remarks about his penuriousness, _they_ never offered to pay for the little girl. And the mother never thought of asking a favor from any one. Though she earned by hard labor scarcely enough to keep them, still for the last year she had had this thought at heart, and quietly saved a little at a time, until finally the long-coveted sum was in her possession; and gladly she went and gave it to the music-master, who put it down at the bottom of his vest-pocket, and told her to send the little girl twice a week. And twice a week the little girl went. That was in the Summer. She was pale, and thin, and delicate, and the scholars all wondered how she would get there through the snow in the Winter. But before the bleak winds had blown one rude blast, the little Alice had a worse trouble. The Widow Massey suddenly fell ill and died, commending her beloved child to the care only of the great Guardian above. It was a terrible stroke, and the people all wondered what would become of the helpless daughter, who was too feeble to do any kind of work for a means of subsistence, and every person thought it strange that somebody else did not come to her relief. It was very sad. The poor little creature seemed fairly racked with grief, and had sat by the side of her dead mother day and night. On the afternoon of the funeral they tried in vain to take her away, until Franz Erckman came, and the people in surprise saw him lift her up in his arms without a struggle, and quietly carry her out of the house. They saw him, still with her arms clasped tight about his neck, crossing the green pastures, strike the narrow foot-path by the creek, and disappear as the path turned behind the heavy foliage that was brilliant in the scarlet dyes of October.