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Marie heard little about this, as she seldom came in contact with the people. She lived lonely in her little home. It was now the fifth year since Hans’ departure, and long ago his letters had ceased to come, because her father had forbidden any correspondence. Hans had no friends in Breisach through whom he could communicate. But such uncertainty gnaws. Marie was tired of waiting–very tired.

One afternoon she seated herself at her desk and started to write her last wish. Her father was absent, and she was unwatched.

“When I die,” she wrote, “I beg you to bury me yonder beside the Cathedral wall, under the rose-bush which I planted in my childhood. Should Hans Le Fevre ever return, I beg you–” she paused, for just then a song, at first soft, then louder, greeted her ears.

No star ever fell from heaven, no swallow ever flew more quickly than flew the maiden to her window, drawn by this call.

In trembling tones the final words of the song died away. Her paper, her ink, her pen, everything had fallen from her in her haste. As a captive bird, freed from its cage, flies forth joyously, so Marie bounded forth from her home. Faster and faster she went, never stopping till she reached the rose-bush. Breathless and with beating heart, she halted. There before her stood Hans Le Fevre.

They seated themselves upon the bench. Long, long they sat silently.

At last Hans said, “My dear, true girl, how pale you have grown. Are you ill?”

She shook her head. “No more, and I trust never again. But you stayed away much too long. Couldn’t you have come back sooner?”

“No, my dear, I could not. Had I returned as a poor, struggling carver your father would have banished me from his door-step. We should then have seen each other again, only to be parted for the second time. So I waited till I had accomplished what I set out to do. I have traveled extensively and feasted my eyes on the beautiful works of art in great cities. I have studied under Durer, and now my name is mentioned with honor as one of Durer’s pupils.”

“Oh, Hans, do you really believe that that will soften my father’s heart?” said Marie, anxiously.

“Yes, Marie, I don’t think that he can fail me. I heard in Nurnberg that a new altar is to be built in this Cathedral, so I hastened here to compete. Should I be deemed worthy to do such a piece of work, what could your father have against me?”

Marie, however, shook her head doubtfully; but Hans was full of hope.

“But see how our rose-bush has grown!” cried Hans in astonishment. “You tended it well; but it seems almost as if the roses had taken from you all your life and strength and health. Return my darling’s strength to her,” Hans said laughingly; and taking a handful of roses, he softly stroked her face with them; but her cheeks remained white.

“Rejoice, my rosebud, rejoice, my darling, for the spring will soon be here; and with my care you will soon be well.”

A half hour later, the beadle walked timidly into the council hall of the high-gabled Council House, and said, “Honored Counselor, will you graciously pardon me, but there is a man without who pressingly begs to be ushered into your presence.”

“Who is it?” asked the Counselor.

“It is Hans Le Fevre,” answered the beadle, “but he is handsomely attired. I hardly recognized him.”

This was a great surprise to all. Hans, the runaway, the tramp, who slipped away by night–to me. “See! see! ingeniously thought out,” cried he.

“But just to design a thing is far easier than to carry it out,” said another.

“Hans Le Fevre never did this kind of work before.”

“Perhaps he has progressed,” remarked the Mayor, “and possibly he would do it cheaper than the renowned Master Artist.”

This idea took root. “But,” said one, “it would be an unheard of thing to give such an exalted work to a simple boy like Hans Le Fevre, whom everybody knew as a stupid child, and whom we looked upon disdainfully. The appearance of the thing alone would not justify us in selecting him.”