light in his eye that spoke of peace. Words were of little use.

After breakfast, which Annette insisted that I should take, I walked
down to the inn, and there learned more of Franz than he had been
willing to tell me. Not only had he been the means of leading his
father to the Saviour, but it was his habit to gather the people
together and read to them out of his Bible, telling them of Jesus and
of his pure and spotless life, then of his agony and death, picturing
his love and his infinite tenderness.

I was not restricted to a set number of days, and for three days I
vibrated between the inn and the small cottage on the mountain. On the
fourth it was over; the messenger had done his bidding. Franz and
Annette were not the only mourners, not a villager but joined them;
and when they turned from the grave to the silence of their humble
room, I went with them.

Not many days after that the door of the cottage was shut; and when I
sailed for my western home, Franz Muller was prosecuting his studies
at Basle.

"He is to be a minister," said Annette, as she followed me to the
door, "and he says that wherever his work is, I may share it with
him."

Her face was lit up with a smile almost as bright as I had seen on
Franz's face. Surely the angels know nothing of the rapture of such a
work.