Midway through the morning he returned and sought Marion to bring her up to date on what he had discovered. He then caught up one of his favorite walking sticks and headed briskly out across the courtyard, down the steps, and past the great oak. Thence he continued to wind his way down to the fields below, where he checked on the progress of the harvesting of one of the fields of wheat. Continuing on, he eventually crossed the stream by the horse bridge, working his way gradually to the right, and ultimately found himself entering Der Frühlingsgarten at its bottommost point through a narrow opening in the tall, surrounding, green, bushy hedge not easily noticeable to the casual passerby.

He did not know where his daughter was, or if she was still even outside. He would stroll about and see what came. Never a man to urge dialog unsought, the Spirit’s breezes within him and his own quiet prayerful upward communion kept Heinrich von Dortmann attentive and ever ready for whatever and whomever his Master had in mind.

He walked about slowly, enjoying the warm air and fragrances of the countryside, knocking here and there a stone from the path with the end of his stick, clipping off a spent bud from a flower or snapping a dead twig from the branch of one of the many miniature or flowering trees. The muscles of his arms longed to share the work with his men. But there were many fields yet to complete, and this growing, young, eternal soul was the primary charge he had been given to nurture.

Eventually, as he drew near, Sabina heard him from the rose garden and went to meet him.

They met at one of the particularly sunny and dry spots in Der Frühlingsgarten, where, because of the protection and warmth afforded them, the baron was able to grow a number of plants indigenous to the Mediterranean region.

“What are you doing, Papa?” she asked.

“Savoring the day, my dear. How about yourself?”

“I am trying. But I’m afraid even the roses themselves haven’t succeeded in helping me enjoy it much.”

“You are still upset over yesterday afternoon?” asked the baron, continuing his stroll, stooping now and laying down his walking stick in the path. On his knees, the baron proceeded to carefully cultivate the earth around one of his prized crown of thorns plants, gently massaging the dirt with his fingers. He had started it from a cutting years ago and had grown especially fond of its tiny orange flowers.

“It’s getting ready to bloom again,” he said, continuing to stir up the soil, pulling out a few weeds as he did.

“Yes, Papa, but its thorns are so long and sharp and strong that I am not tempted by its blooms.”

A quick contemplative look passed over the baron’s brow, and he found himself wondering if his daughter’s simple words mirrored all of life.