Philip did not fear work or hardship. He knew, before he heard it from Count Maurice, that a great many Germans had emigrated to America and done well there. He had heard a letter read which such an emigrant had written to his brother in Fulda, telling of the large farm, of the cows and sheep and horses, and the money that was to be made. It would be a grand opening for Gustaf—better than working day and night for a mere subsistence, and perhaps, after all, to be carried off as his father had been the next time the landgrave wanted to sell some of his people for money. Then, as Greta said, it was a great thing to see his mother smile again. Philip had been sitting on the foot of his bed in the dark. He got up; and striking a light, he went to the cupboard in the wall where he kept his choicest working materials and tools. In a far corner was something carefully covered up with a cloth. Philip drew it forward reverently and unrolled it. It was a block of alabaster, of the clear, fine grain found in the Thuringerwald, partly carved into the semblance of a child's head. The carving was unfinished and faulty in many respects, yet an artist would have seen in it marks of true genius. The eyes were a little out of proportion, but they saw. The mouth smiled and the whole thing was full of expression. It was, in fact, a fair portrait of the little child that was gone. Philip looked at it and kissed it. Then he covered it again and put it back in its place. Then he closed the door, put out his lamp, and threw himself on his knees by the bedside. How long he remained there he knew not, and only one Eye saw what passed in his mind. To that One with strong crying and tears he appealed, and he was heard. "Herein we perceive the love of God, because he laid down his life for us; and we ought also to lay down our lives for the brethren." Philip Reinhart laid down his life at his Saviour's feet that night, and the sacrifice was accepted. CHAPTER IV. _THE MISCHIANZA._ WE must now go back to the month of June, 1778. The winter just passed had been one of the darkest of the war to the Americans. Their little army, encamped at Valley Forge, had suffered for want of every necessary of life, notwithstanding the efforts made all over the country to relieve them. It was some comfort to the poor fellows that Washington and his wife lived with them and shared their perils and distresses. The Indians were out all along the frontier, and with them were leagued Tories and renegade whites more savage than themselves. There were divisions among the Americans themselves, and a cabal was formed for the avowed object of ruining the commander-in-chief. It was a dark and gloomy time.