I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor,
his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of
silver falling over the coarse white pillow.
"Has he been long ill?" I asked.
"It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and
lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.
"Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I
questioned.
"Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any
other."
"Then he has not always liked it?"
"No, sir."
"May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?"
He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same
frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette
entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz
returned.
"Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I
know you must be hungry."
White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of
sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not
expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking
his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its
upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and
then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of
himself.
Franz's Story.
"It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter
visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide.
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