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"It is a note for the Curate," said the boy; "they made me promise to give it him, for they know that I never broke my word. It is something very bad about me, and it will make him angry I know; but he shall see it for all that."

Barbara took it, and read what was written: "Hum!" said she, when she had finished, "it is the old story over again; he won't have his life and the lives of his customers embittered by any one who cannot tell a nail in a wall from a sausage-pan :" again the old woman laughed, and then went through the porch into the garden, where, his pipe being ended, the Curate had seated himself again at his writing-desk.

When Barbara returned, she looked almost as grave as Friedrich himself, and bade him go to the Curate in the garden.

Friedrich stole softly to the front of the little writing-desk, and stood like a culprit; the Curate, in whose hand was the piece of paper which Barbara had given him, eyed him severely.

"Friedrich," said he, "what is to be done? I would maintain you willingly, if I could, the Lord knows; but, as I cannot, it is high time that you learned to get your own living. As to studying, you must give that up; you have not one farthing for that."

"O, reverend sir!" answered the poor boy, "I have the very best will to get my own living, but I cannot, I cannot! and why, He knows best who created me. I went to my godfather's with the firmest determination to be mindful, and not to give you any more trouble; but, neither my head nor my hand is good for any trade. When I was at the apothecary's, if I went to fetch herbs out of the ingredient-room, then came "Beatus ille qui procul" into my head, and I brought the wrong thing; and at the gingerbread-maker's, even while I

was trying to do right, and to avoid both the anger and the laughter of them all, I was sure to mistake one thing for another; and at my godfather's, if I took a sausage by the end, it was sure to slip out of my fingers; if I took hold of it by both ends, they all laughed at me, and asked if I thought it would run away."

The Curate smiled too at this simple and candid confession.

That smile went to the poor boy's heart, and he said mournfully, and with tears in his eyes, "I know not that which the Almighty wills for me, poor orphan! It seems to me as if everything excepting books burnt my fingers, and yet I must renounce books for ever! My soul thirsts after the fountains of knowledge; I feel the thirst as the reaper feels his in harvest-time, and yet I must renounce the very means which would satisfy it! Oh, reverend sir, you have your pleasure in books, you know what it is; you are the only person in Pappenheim who can understand me! I have displeased you, I know, but, oh cast me not off! tell me only to whom I could turn myself!"

The Curate turned his face from the boy, and fixing his eyes upon the garden-bed opposite, as if studying the growing cabbages, said, with a somewhat tremulous voice: "Friedrich, I think that, hitherto, we have forgotten over our books the right person, namely, the Almighty; that is to say, I think that we have, hitherto, studied too much, and prayed too little. Instead, as hitherto, of going here and there, and knocking at the doors of friends and relations, we should have given all honour and preference to the Father in heaven, and have kocked at his door: 'Knock, and it shall be opened to you,' he says; and his gracious words are, 'Call on me in

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