nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sick man.

"How has he been, Annette?" and Franz unclasped his sister's arm.

"He did not say much till the sun was nearly down, then he began to
ask for you, and at last I read him to sleep."

"Can you give us something to eat, Annette? you see I have brought the
stranger with me."

She turned with such an air of modesty, dropping a courtesy so very
humbly, and yet with a blending of maidenly dignity, that I felt
instinctively to bow to the womanhood before me, quaint and
picturesque as it was in its black dress, white sleeves, and
wooden-heeled shoes.

Giving one glance at the sleeper, Annette slipped out at a side-door;
while Franz rising from his straight-backed chair, and dropping on his
knees beside the bed, pressed his lips to the furrowed brow. The
action seemed to recall the sick man, his breathing was not so heavy
and his eyes partly opened.

"Father, you are not sleeping easily; let me turn you on your pillow."
The voice was low and tender, and the action gentle as a woman's.
"Franz!" and the withered hand stroked his light curls. "Franz!" there
was nothing more; but oh, what a world of love, of restored
confidence! the stiffening tongue lingered fondly on each letter.

The room was large, and there was a general air of neatness; but
there was a lack of comforts such as we are accustomed to see at home.