"The mother is on her knees praying and weeping," said she, turning with an awestruck face to her companions. "Do not let us disturb her. I heard the good brother Gotthold say he would give a great deal to see her weep, and so did Aunt Lisa." "That strange gentleman who came with the young count said the same," observed Gustaf. "But where shall we go, Greta?" "The sun is not near setting," replied his sister; "let us go up to the churchyard." The church of Nonnenwald stood on a little rocky eminence somewhat apart from the village. It was a very ancient structure, and there were ruins about it—very deep, dark vaults, grass-grown mounds, and crumbling walls which seemed to show that the existing building had once been part of a larger structure. There was a dim tradition that a nunnery had once occupied the hill, which had been destroyed in some unusual and awful manner for the wickedness of the inhabitants—some said by an earthquake, others by a waterspout descending from the clouds. Be that as it might, the scene was peaceful enough now. The sun was sinking, and sent his rays through the branches of an old oak which still retained many of its leaves and cast a chequered shade over the short green turf. Most of the graves were humble grass-grown mounds, marked, if at all, only by a rude headstone or a wooden cross, but there were a few stone tombs and monuments, very old and moss-grown. On one of these was a recumbent figure, but so weather-worn and bespattered with lichen that no one could have told whether it was meant for a man or a woman. Tradition, however, had given it the name of the Good Lady, and averred that it had once stood in the convent church and was miraculously spared when the rest of the structure was destroyed. Near it was the entrance to one of those vaults of which I have spoken—a low arch partly stopped with stones. The children bent their steps toward the old oak, where, under the shelter of some nut-bushes, lay the little new-made grave. It had been neatly covered with sods, and some kind hand had laid upon it a garland of late flowers. "I wonder where Fritz is now?" said Philip, in a low voice. "Singing with the angels," answered little Gustaf, confidently. "I asked Brother Gotthold last night, and he said so." "Then I am sure he is very happy," said Philip. "You know how he always loved music." He was silent a minute, and then added, in a still lower voice, "I wonder if he has found father?" "Father is not dead," said Margaret, abruptly; "so how should Fritz find him?" Philip shook his head: "I wish I could think so, Greta dear. But you know how long it is since we have heard a word—never since he sailed—" "What of that?" interrupted Margaret, almost harshly. "Was not Uncle Franz away more than seven years? And had not every one given him up for dead? Yet he came back, and father will come back—I know he will." "How do you know?" asked little Gustaf. "Who told you? Did Brother Gotthold?"