"I know it, Joseph," said he with emotion, "I know it, I am not jealous." And he wiped his eyes. "Yes--yes--love--and family and then friends. It is quite natural, my child, do not trouble yourself about that." I got up and pressed him to my heart. The first word Catherine said to me was, "Joseph, I knew you would come back, I had put my trust in God! Now our worst troubles are over, and we shall always remain together." She was still sitting on my knee with her arm on my shoulder, I looked at her, she dropped her eyes and was very pale. That which we had hoped for before my departure had come. We were happy. Mr. Goulden smiled as he sat at his workbench--Jean stood up near the door and said: "Now I am going, Joseph, to Harberg. Father and grandmother are waiting for me." "Stay, Jean, you will dine with us." Mr. Goulden and Catherine urged him also, but he would not wait. I embraced him on the stairs and felt that I loved him like a brother. He came often after that, but never once for thirty years without stopping with me. Now he lies behind the church at Hommert. He was a brave man and had a good heart. But what am I thinking of? I must finish my story, and I have not said a word of Aunt Gredel, who came an hour afterward. Ah! she threw up her hands, and she embraced me, exclaiming: "Joseph! Joseph! you have then escaped everything! let them come now to take you again! let them come! oh! how I repented of letting you go away! how I cursed the conscription and all the rest! but here you are! how good it is! the Lord has had mercy upon us!" Yes, all these old stories bring the tears to my eyes, when I think of them; it is like a long forgotten dream, and yet it is real. These joys and sorrows that we recall, attach us to earth, and though we are old and our strength is gone and our sight is dim, and we are only the shadows of ourselves; yet we are never ready to go, we never say, "It is enough!" These old memories are always fresh; when we speak of past dangers we seem to be in the midst of them again; when we recall our old friends, we again press their hands in imagination, and our beloved is again seated on our knee, and we look in her face, thinking, "She is beautiful!" and that which seemed to us just and wise and right in those old days, seems right and wise and just still. I remember--and I must here finish my long story--that for many months and even years there was great sorrow in many families, and nobody dared to speak openly, or wish for the glory of the country.