DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING故事

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　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.
            
            

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        　　    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,
            
            

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        　　    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