But the child did not die.

He lay weak and wasted and almost motionless a long time; but
slowly, as the springtime drew near, and the snows on the lower
hills loosened, and the abounding waters coursed green and
crystal clear down all the sides of the hills, Findelkind revived
as the earth did, and by the time the new grass was springing,
and the first blue of the gentian gleamed on the alps, he was
well.

But to this day he seldom plays and scarcely ever laughs. His
face is sad, and his eyes have a look of trouble.

Sometimes the priest of Zirl says of him to others, "He will be
a great poet or a great hero some day." Who knows?

Meanwhile, in the heart of the child there remains always a
weary pain, that lies on his childish life as a stone may lie on
a flower.

"I killed them!" he says often to himself, thinking of the two
little white brothers frozen to death on Martinswand that cruel
night; and he does the things that are told him, and is obedient,
and tries to be content with the humble daily duties that are his
lot, and when he says his prayers at bedtime always ends them so:

"Dear God, do let the little lambs play with the other
Findelkind that is in heaven."