DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING故事

　　 THERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with

　　 a drawbridge which was but seldom let down:- not all guests

　　 are good people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot

　　 through, and to pour down boiling water or even molten lead on

　　 the enemy, should he approach. Inside the house the rooms were

　　 very high and had ceilings of beams, and that was very useful

　　 considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the

　　 chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood smouldered. On

　　 the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and proud ladies

　　 in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about

　　 alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the

　　 house, to her belonged the castle.

　　 Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her

　　 people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the

　　 kennel by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in

　　 the hall and drank the wine and the good ale out of her

　　 cellar. Mrs. Meta was now on the chain, she could not even

　　 bark.

　　 But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly

　　 approached her; they must not see it, otherwise they would

　　 have killed him.

　　 "Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember

　　 how my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride

　　 on the wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good,

　　 he was to ride until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole

　　 down to him, as I steal now to you, you yourself put little

　　 stones under each of his feet that he might have support,

　　 nobody saw it, or they pretended not to see it, for you were

　　 then the young gracious mistress. My father has told me this,

　　 and I have not forgotten it! Now I will free you, Mrs. Meta

　　 Mogen!"

　　 Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off

　　 in rain and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.

　　 "Thus the small service done to the old man was richly

　　 rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.

　　 "Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.

　　 The robbers were hanged.

　　 There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not

　　 belong to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble

　　 family.

　　 We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the

　　 gilt knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like

　　 bouquets on the water, and wild swans are swimming round them.

　　 In the garden grow roses; the mistress of the house is herself

　　 the finest rose petal, she beams with joy, the joy of good

　　 deeds: however, not done in the wide world, but in her heart,

　　 and what is preserved there is not forgotten. Delaying is not

　　 forgetting!

　　 Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in

　　 the field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of

　　 her little room looks northward, the sun does not enter here.

　　 The girl can only see a small piece of field which is

　　 surrounded by a high fence. But to-day the sun shines here-

　　 the warm, beautiful sun of God is within the little room; it

　　 comes from the south through the new window, where formerly

　　 the wall was.

　　 The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see

　　 the wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so

　　 beautiful, and only through a single word from the kind

　　 mistress of the mansion.

　　 "The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the

　　 joy it afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"

　　 And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in

　　 the humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are

　　 also afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does

　　 not forget it. Delayed is not forgotten!

　　 An old house stood there; it was in the large town with

　　> its busy traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do

　　 not enter them, we remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and

　　 light, clean and tidy; the copper utensils are shining, the

　　 table as if polished with beeswax; the sink looks like a

　　 freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single servant has done,

　　 and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go to

　　 church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that

　　 signifies mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither

　　 father nor mother, neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a

　　 poor girl. One day she was engaged to a poor fellow; they

　　 loved each other dearly.

　　 One day he came to her and said:

　　 "We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the

　　 basement has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but

　　 you are in my heart; what do you advise me to do?"

　　 "I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your

　　 happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but

　　 remember this; from the hour we part we shall never see each

　　 other again."

　　 Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and

　　 sweetheart in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she

　　 could not help asking him, "How are you?"

　　 "Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the

　　 woman is brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have

　　 fought the battle, it will soon be ended; we shall not see

　　 each other again now until we meet before God!"

　　 A week has passed; this morning his death was in the

　　 newspaper, that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old

　　 sweetheart is dead and has left a wife and three

　　 step-children, as the paper says; it sounds as if there is a

　　 crack, but the metal is pure.

　　 The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points

　　 to the same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the

　　 heart and will never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!

　　 These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same

　　 stalk. Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little

　　 heartbook are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!

　　 THE END