Chapter One.

A traveller was making his way through the Black Forest in Germany. A pack was on his back, of a size which required a stout man to carry it, and a thick staff was in his hand. He had got out of his path by attempting to make a short cut, and in so doing had lost his way, and had been since wandering he knew not where. Yet he was stout of heart, as of limb, and a night spent in the depths of the forest would have concerned him but little had he not set a value upon time. “I have lost so much in my days of ignorance and folly,” he kept saying, “that I must make up by vigilance what has been thus misspent. I wish that I had known better. However, I am now ready to spend all, and be spent in the work of the Good Master I serve.”

The ground was uneven, his load heavy, and the weather warm. Still he trudged bravely on, consoling himself by giving forth, in rich full tones, a hymn of Hans Sachs of Nuremburg, the favourite poet of Protestant Germany in those days.

Thus he went on climbing up the steep side of the hill, out of which dark rocks and tall trees protruded in great confusion. At last he got into what looked like a path. “All right now,” he said to himself; “this must lead somewhere, and I have still an hour of daylight to find my way out of the forest. When I get to the top of this hill I shall probably be better able to judge what direction to take.” He trudged on as before, now and then stopping to take breath, and then once more going on bravely. At length the sound of a woodman’s axe caught his ear.

“All right,” said he. “I should not have allowed my heart to doubt about the matter. The Good One who has protected me hitherto will still continue to be my Guide and Friend.”

He stopped to listen from which direction the sounds came. The loud crash of a falling tree enabled him better to judge, and by the light of the sinking sun, which found its way through the branches of the tall trees, he made directly towards the spot. He soon caught sight of an old man, stripped to his shirt and trousers, who with his gleaming axe was hewing the branches of the tree he had just felled. Not far off stood a young boy with a couple of donkeys, which he was beginning to load with fagots, near a pile of which they stood.

“Friend woodman,” said the traveller, as he got up to him, and the old man stood for a moment leaning on his axe, with an inquiring glance in his eye. “Friend woodman, I have lost my way; can you help me to find it?”

“Not to-night, friend traveller,” answered the woodman. “If I was to attempt to put you on your way, you would lose it again in five minutes. This is no easy country for a man ignorant of it to pass through without a guide, and neither I nor little Karl there have time just now to accompany you. But you look like an honest man, and if you will come with me to my cottage, I will help you as far as I can to-morrow morning.”

“Thank you,” said the traveller. “I accept your offer.”

“Well then, I have just made my last stroke,” said the old man, lifting up his axe. “We will load our asses and be off. We have some way to go, as I live farther up the valley of Gutech, and even I prefer daylight to darkness for travelling these wild paths. If you had not found me I cannot say when you would have got out of the forest.”

Without further waste of words, the old man and young Karl set to work to load the asses, strapping on the huge fagots with thongs of leather, while the patient animals, putting out their fore-legs, quietly endured all the tugs and pulls to which they were subjected.

“That pack of yours seems heavy, friend traveller,” said the old man, glancing at his companion; “let me carry it for you.”

“No, no! Thanks to you,” answered the traveller. “I am strong and hearty. I would not put that on your shoulders which I feel burdensome to my own.”

“Then let us put it on the back of one of the asses,” said the woodcutter; “it will make but little difference to our long-eared friend.”

“A merciful man is merciful to his beast,” said the traveller. “The poor brutes seem already somewhat overloaded, and I should be unwilling to add to their pain for the sake of relieving myself.”

“Then let Karl, there, carry it; he is sturdy, and can bear it some little way, at all events,” said the old man.

“I would not place on young shoulders what I find tire a well-knit pair,” said the traveller, glancing at young Karl. “But perhaps he may like to get some of the contents of my pack inside his head,” he added.

“Down his mouth, I suppose you mean,” said the old man, laughing. “Is it food or liquor you carry in your pack?”

“No, indeed, friend,” answered the traveller. “Yet it is food, of a sort food for the mind, and better still, food for the soul. Is your soul ever hungry, friend?”

“I know not what you mean,” answered the old man. “I have a soul, I know, for the priest tells me so; and so have my relatives who have gone before me, as I know to my cost; for they make me pay pretty roundly to get their souls out of purgatory. I hope Karl there will in his turn pay for mine when I die.”

“Ah, friend, yes, I see how it is,” said the traveller. “Your soul wants a different sort of nourishment from what it ever has had. I have great hopes that the contents of my pack will afford it that nourishment.”

The traveller was walking on all this time with the old man and Karl, behind the asses. Karl kept looking up in the former’s face with an inquiring glance, the expression of his countenance varying as the traveller continued his remarks.

“I will not keep you in suspense any longer,” said the traveller. “My pack contains copies of that most precious book which has lately been translated into our mother tongue by Dr Martin Luther, and from which alone we have any authority for the Christian faith we profess. I have besides several works by the same learned author, as also works by other writers.”

“I wish that I could read them,” said the old man, with a sigh; “but if I had the power I have not the time, and my eyes are somewhat dim by lamplight. Karl there was taught to read last winter by a young man who was stopping at my cottage, and whom I took in, having found him with a broken leg in the forest.”

“Oh, grandfather, why he taught you also to read almost as well as I do!” said Karl. “All you have been wishing for has been a book in big print, and perhaps if the merchant has one he will sell it to you.”

“We will examine the contents of my pack when we get to your cottage, my friend, and I daresay something will be found to suit you,” observed the traveller. “If you have made a beginning, you will soon be able to read these books, and I am sure when once you have begun you will be eager to go on.”

Chapter Two.

The gloom of evening was settling down over the wild scene of mountain, forest, rock, and stream, when the traveller reached the woodman’s hut. “You are welcome, friend, under the roof of Nicholas Moretz,” said the old man, as he ushered his guest into his cottage.

Karl mean time unloading the asses, placed the fagots on a pile raised on one side of the hut.

“Here you can rest for the night, and to-morrow morning, when we proceed into the town to dispose of our fagots, you can accompany us without risk of losing your way,” the woodcutter observed, pushing open the door.

As he did so, a young girl ran out to meet him, and throwing her arms round his neck, received a kiss on her fair brow. She drew back with a bashful look when she saw the stranger.