There is one on the Bocher's grave, as on all of the others. I have often sat under it and thought of the man who sleeps beneath its shadow. And whenever I went there I used to read the beautiful and touchingly simple words upon the headstone, which tell how he had devoted himself to the help of the helpless and the care of the sick, and how he had, like a true hero, died at his post.... He went "home" a year after the interview I have described between him and Graefin Jadwiga. Low fever was very prevalent in the "Gasse" that winter. David saved all he could, and never spared himself in any way. At last he also took it. He recovered from the fever, but his strength was so much weakened by it, that he fell into a decline, and faded slowly but visibly. He never ceased his labors until he was actually confined to bed. There he lay quietly, and hardly liked people to put themselves out of the way by nursing him. He sent for me a few days before his death, so I went to see him. He looked pale and ill, and was lying beside the open window, through which the first breath of spring was penetrating his close room. "I am glad that you have come," he said, with a kind smile. "I have something to say to you before I die...." He paused a moment, and then went on: "I was very wrong when I spoke to you about vengeance and retribution for the humiliation we have suffered. I entreat you to forget that, and always wait and think, in the spirit of the words I then quoted to you--'Forgive them, for they know not what they do.' I know that a hasty word is often deeply engraved on a child's mind, so I want you to put your hand in mine, and promise that you will do this, and will try not to allow yourself to think such thoughts as those I uttered in my anger." I promised him with passionate tears. Boy as I was, I could not help feeling the greatness of soul shown by this man, who, even when he was dying, had time to think of doing good to others. "You are crying, foolish child," he said, gently. "You should not do so. Have I not often been face to face with death before? And, believe me, death is not terrible--he comes as a friend and comforter to man. It is true that I should have liked to have lived a little longer, and to have gone on with the work I had undertaken; but God, who rules our lives, has willed that it should not be so. His will be done!..." He pushed my hair back from my forehead, and placing his hand on my head in blessing, added: "Good-by, my child! good-by! and ... may you be happier than your teacher!" The last words were said so low that I could scarcely hear them. One beautiful bright spring morning his attendant found him dead, with a smile upon his lips. Graefin Jadwiga is still alive, and is still a beautiful woman. Who can tell whether she is happy, or whether, at the bottom of her heart, there is not a sad remembrance of the man whom she had really loved after her own fashion?