Gottlieb's heart began to sink.
Never had his dear old friend failed to share in any joy of theirs
before.
At length, as he was lingering about the old man's little hut,
wondering, a sad, silent company came bearing slowly and tenderly a
heavy burden, which at last they laid on Hans' poor straw pallet.
It was poor Hans himself, bruised and crushed and wounded in his
struggles to press through the crowd to see his darling, his poor
crooked limbs broken and unable to move any more.
But the face was untouched, and when they had laid him on the couch,
and the languid eyes opened and rested on the beloved face of the child
bending over him bathed in tears, a light came over the poor rugged
features, and shone in the dark, hollow eyes, such as nothing on earth
can give--a wonderful light of great, unutterable love, as they gazed
into the eyes of the child, and then, looking upward, seemed to open on
a vision none else could see.
"Jesus! Savior! I can do no more. Take care of him, thou thyself,
Jesus, Lord!"
He said no more--no prayer for himself, only for the child.
Then the eyes grew dim, the head sank back, and with one sigh he
breathed his soul away to God.
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