I was recalled from the window by the voice of my wife, who was awake,
and anxiously inquiring for her sons.
"They are gone," said I, "to gather the leaves of the karata for
Ernest's burnt hand, and he wished to go too."
Her deep sleep had entirely chased from her memory all the events of the
previous evening, and I was glad to allow Francis to repeat his little
tale of the burn and his _conductor_ in order to gain time. She was
astonished and uneasy to hear of Ernest's accident, and was afraid they
would _get wet_ in searching for the karata, little aware of the hours
of anguish I had endured waiting and watching for those she believed had
only just left home. At that moment, the dear and well-known voices were
heard under the great window.
"Father, I am bringing back my brothers," cried Ernest.
"Yes, papa, we are all alive, and as wet as fishes," added the sweet
voice of Jack.
"But not without having had our troubles," said the manly voice of
Fritz.
I rushed down the staircase to meet them, and, embracing them, I led
them, trembling with emotion, to the bed of their mother, who could not
comprehend the transport of joy I expressed.
"Dear Elizabeth," said I, "here are our sons; God has given them to us a
second time."
"Have we then been in any danger of losing them?" said she.
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