to be constantly at the castle, and to bring you so many gifts--
bright pictures of saints, and beautiful songs?"

"I know all that very well," replied Sintram thoughtfully. "My
sainted mother was alive in those days."

"Our gracious lady is still living, God be praised," said the good
Rolf.

"But she does not live for us, poor sick creatures that we are!"
cried Sintram. "And why will you not call her sainted? Surely she
knows nothing about my dreams?"

"Yes, she does know of them," said the chaplain; "and she prays to
God for you. But take heed, and restrain that wild, haughty temper
of yours. It might, indeed, come to pass that she would know nothing
about your dreams, and that would be if your soul were separated from
your body; and then the holy angels also would cease to know anything
of you."

Sintram fell back on his bed as if thunderstruck; and Rolf said, with
a gentle sigh, "You should not speak so severely to my poor sick
child, reverend sir."

The boy sat up, and with tearful eyes he turned caressingly towards
the chaplain: "Let him do as he pleases, you good, tender-hearted
Rolf; he knows very well what he is about. Would you reprove him if
I were slipping down a snow-cleft, and he caught me up roughly by the
hair of my head?"