"No, but Brother Gotthold thinks he may be alive, for all that; and you heard what the young count said last night. But that is not the reason. I cannot tell you, but somehow or other I do know that my father is alive, and that I shall see him again." Philip shook his head sadly, but he did not argue the point. After standing a few moments in silence, he said, suddenly, "Margaret, do you think my mother would let me have the oak log that lies under the shed at the forge?" "I dare say," answered Margaret, coming back as it were from a long distance to answer the question. "At any rate, you can ask her. What will you do with it?" "I should like to carve a cross for Fritz—a cross with a garland, like that we saw in the churchyard at Fulda. I would make the wreath all of lilies and spring flowers such as Fritz loved. I can see just how to do it;" and Philip's eyes brightened. "And an inscription telling how he died," said Margaret. "No, I think not, Greta dear," answered her brother. "Why keep up such a sad story? The darling innocent is now with the angels, as Gustaf said, and why fix our thoughts on his painful journey?" "I 'will' think of it! I will 'never' forget it!" answered Margaret, vehemently. "It is all the fault of the landgrave. It is he who killed Fritz. If my father had not been sent away, it would never have happened. But you, Philip, think of nothing and care for nothing but your books and your carving. If you remembered father as I do, and how he was carried away, you would not be so easy about the matter as you are. It is not hard to be quiet when one does not care." Philip winced as if some one had hurt him. "You forget that I was older than you when father went away," said he, in the gentle voice which was one of his characteristics. "True, I had not seen him for a year, because I was with my uncle in Fulda, but I remember him perfectly. I was not here when he went, and I never knew exactly how it was. Did they take him from the forge?" "No; it was from the church," answered Margaret. "It was All Saints' day, and all the village was in the church. The new panels which my father had carved for the pulpit had just been put up, I remember. Just as the pastor finished his discourse, we heard outside the tramp of soldiers and the clash of muskets, and then the harsh voice of the officer,— "'Let not a man escape!'