Once, during an interview with George, she dropped a rose, and when he

picked it up, she must have allowed him to keep it, for she gave no sign
of disapproval when he kissed it and hid it inside the breast of his
doublet.  The large architectural drawing had screened this little comedy
from curious eyes.

One evening, in the moonlight, the duchess saw him climb a garden wall,
with a lute in his hand, then the sky became overcast, and she could
distinguish him no more; she could only see a lighted window where a
beautiful girl was standing.  The maiden charmed her beyond measure, and
she grew hot and cold with the pleasurable anticipation that George might
win her for his wife some day and bring her home.  But then she reflected
that he was a child born to ill-luck, and as such would never be blessed
with the love of so exquisite a creature.

What she saw in the next few weeks confirmed this opinion.  His manner
was usually decisive, abrupt and self-reliant, but now he seemed to her
like a clock that points to one hour while it strikes another.  At the
works he gave his orders as firmly and decidedly as ever; but as soon as
he was alone, he looked like a criminal sentenced to death, and either
sat bowed down and miserable or else paced up and down the floor
restlessly, gesticulating wildly.  Often when he beat his forehead with
the palm of his hand or struck his breast with his fist, his mother was
frightened.

Once, after a garden party, where he had been fortunate enough to walk
alone for a full hour under a shady pergola with the daughter of the
gentleman who owned the building in progress, and to kiss her hand many
times, he burst into tears as soon as he was in his own room, and behaved
so wildly that his mother feared for his reason and wept bitterly also.
just at this time she ought to have felt nothing but joy, joy, heart-felt
and unadulterated, for it appeared that the chief of the councillors had
in truth been more far-sighted, than other people and had not made a
mistake in his choice of a queen, for she had just borne a son, and,
moreover, one that was a true Greylock.  His grey lock was indeed
somewhat thin and lacked the firm curl of the former ones; but every one
who was not colour-blind must acknowledge that it was grey.

The duchess would have liked to rejoice sincerely in her grandchild, but
her affections were divided, and even when she held it in her arms, she
yearned for the magic glass and a sight of her unlucky son.

Wendelin XVI., who had long been satiated with the pleasures which his
position offered him, finding them all flat and insipid, experienced for
the first time in twelve years a sensation of delight, like any one else,
when he heard the faint cry of the infant and learned the good news that
his child was a son.  Hitherto his greatest satisfaction had been to hear
the clock strike five when he had imagined that it was only four.

The child, however, was something entirely new, and his heart, which
usually beat as slowly as a clock that is running down, quickened its
pulsations whenever he thought of his son.  During the first weeks of its
life he sat for hours at a time beside the gilt cradle, staring
thoughtfully through his eye-glass at the future Wendelin XVII.  Soon
this occupation ceased to interest him, and he drifted along once more on
the sluggish waves of his former existence, from minute to minute, from
hour to hour.

The queen, his companion on this placid journey, had grown to be like
him in many ways.  The two yawned as other people breathe.  They knew no
desires, for as everything they possessed was always the best that could
be had, to-morrow could give them nothing better than to-day.  Their life
was like a long poplar alley through which they wandered lazily side by
side.

Pepe, the major-domo, after Wendelin came to the throne, was made body-
servant to the king; he, above all others, was inclined to regard his
master, born under a lucky star and possessing everything that one could
desire, as a person favoured by Fortune; yet, after he had listened to
his sighs and murmurs through many a quiet night, he reflected: "I am
better off in my own shoes."

Pepe kept his own counsel and confided to no one save old Nonna what he
knew.  She, too, had learned to be discreet and consequently did not
repeat his confidences even to the duchess, who had enough to bear
without that additional burden.

How pale her darling seemed to her when she saw him in the glass!  Yet,
even on the worst days, he was busy at his place in the piazza, where the
cathedral, which he had been building for three years, was nearing
completion.  The greatest energy at that moment was being expended on the
dome, which rose proudly over the crossing of the nave and transepts.
Whenever Nonna looked over the duchess' shoulder to get a glimpse of
George, he was always seen there so long as the sun was in the heavens.
Many times the hearts of the two women stood still when they saw him
climb to the highest point of the scaffolding in order to direct the work
from there.  Fate had only to make his foot slip one little inch or
decree that a wasp should sting him on the finger to put an end to his
existence.  The poor mother was doubly anxious because he seemed so
unconscious of the risk he ran up there and looked about him even more
boldly and self-reliantly than usual.

The dome was already perfectly round.  Why wasn't it finished, and why
must he go on climbing again and again that frightful scaffolding?

"Nonna, Nonna, you must look, I can stand it no longer," she cried one
day after she had been regarding the glass for a long time.  "Hold me--he
is going to jump.  Nonna, is he safe?  I can no longer see."  And the
glass shook in her hand.

"Oh!"  the old woman answered, heaving a sigh of relief, "there he stands
as solidly and firmly as the statue of Wendelin I. in the market-place.
See.  .  .  ."

"Yes, yes, there he is,"  the duchess cried and fell on her knees to
thank Heaven.

The nurse continued to look in the glass.  Suddenly she shrieked aloud
and her mistress sank together and covered her face with her hands.
"Has he fallen?  Is he dead?"  she groaned.

But Nonna, despite her gout, sprang up and ran to her mistress with the
mirror in her hand and stammering, half laughing and half crying, like
one drunk yet possessed of his senses: "George, our George, look.  Our
prince has the grey lock.  Here, before my very eyes I saw it grow."

The duchess jumped up, cast one glance into the glass, saw the grey lock
distinctly, and then forgetting that she was a princess and Nonna but a
humble servant, threw her arms about her and kissed her on the mouth,
above which grew so luxuriant a moustache that many a page would gladly
have exchanged his young upper lip for her older one.  Then the duchess
reached once more for the mirror to assure herself that her eyes had not
been deceived, but her fingers trembled so with excitement that the glass
slipped from her hand and fell to the floor where it broke in a thousand
pieces.

What a fright it gave them!  Fortunately Nonna, after a lifetime spent in
the care of babies, had laid aside what we call nerves, else she had
certainly fallen in a swoon like her mistress; she was consequently able
to support the duchess and soothe her with gentle words.

In the meanwhile the young architect from the staging inspected the stone
which crowned the dome and found that it had been well set.  But he had
no suspicion that the grey lock had grown on his head.  Older architects
came and absorbed his attention.  They pressed his hand, praised him and
said that he had just finished a marvellous work of art.  They examined,
with him, the interior of the cathedral, and then appeared the prince for
whom George had built the church, and to him the architects explained how
solid and well proportioned was the dome which had been finished a few
hours before.  The noble prince listened with comprehension; after he was
satisfied he drew George to his breast and said: "I thank, you my friend.
Despite your youth I entrusted you with a great undertaking and you have
more than fulfilled my most sanguine expectations.  At my age we count it
gain not to be disappointed, and the day when our expectations are not
only fulfilled, but surpassed we number among our festivals.  Your work
will be an ornament to the city and state, and will insure you undying
fame.  Take this from a man who wishes you well."

The prince took the golden chain from his own neck, hung it about
George's, and continued:

"Art is easy, some say; others, that it is difficult.  Both are right.
It must be delightful and ennobling to design such a work but the
carrying out must be laborious and attended with many perplexities.
I can see that you have found it so, for only yesterday I remarked with
pleasure the youthful glint of your brown hair and today,--no doubt while
you were superintending the laying of the dome's crown,--a lock of hair
above your left temple has turned grey, Master Peregrinus."

George reeled at this sudden and unexpected fulfilment of the dearest
wish of his soul.  He had gone out into the world under this name of
Peregrinus and had never betrayed the fact that he was a prince's son.
For several years his heart had been overflowing with love for the
daughter of the prince and he had known that she reciprocated his
affection sincerely, yet for the sake of his own family he had battled
bravely with his passion and had borne his heartache and longing in
silence.

Proofs had not been wanting to show hint how devoted the prince was to
him, and if he had been able to say to his patron, "I am a Greylock," no
doubt his lord would gladly have accorded his daughter's hand to him.
George had repeated this to himself a thousand times, but he had remained
firm, had kept his counsel and had not ceased to hope that by righteous
energy and industry he might accomplish the "great and good task" which
had been required of him in Misdral's cave.  When his grey lock grew, the
fairy Clementine's fish had said to him, then would he know that he had
achieved something great and good, and that he might bear once more the
name of his proud race and return home without exposing his family to any
danger.  He had reached the goal, the task was completed, he might call
himself a Greylock once more, for the curl which was the pride of his
race now adorned his head too.

"The prince watched him turn very red then very pale and finally said
inquiringly "Well,  my Peregrinus?"  The architect fell upon his knee,
kissed the prince's hand and cried:

"I am not Peregrinus.  Henceforth I am a Greylock, I am George, the
second son of the Duke Wendelin, of whom you have heard, and I must
confess to you, my noble lord, that I love your daughter Speranza,
and I would not exchange places with any god if you would but give
us your blessing."

"A Greylock!"  the prince exclaimed.  "Truly, truly this day should not
be reckoned among the feast-days but should be regarded as the best day
in all the year.  Come to my arms, my dear, my worthy son!"

An hour later the architect held the princess in his arms.  What a
wedding they had!  George did not return immediately to his own home.
He wrote to his mother that he was alive and well and intended to visit
her in company with his young bride as soon as he had finished a great
work with which he was occupied.  He sent with the letter a portrait of
his wife and when the duchess saw it and read the letter she grew ten
years younger from pure delight, and old Nonna at least five.  When
Wendelin XVI. was informed that his brother still lived, he smiled and
the queen followed his example, but as soon as they were alone she cried:
"The land of the Greylocks will be smaller than ever now and even before
it was not so great as my father's."

When Speranza presented her husband with a son the duchess and her
faithful attendant Nonna went to Italy, and the meeting between mother
and son was beyond all measure joyful.  Two months she spent with her
dear children and then she returned home, George and his wife having
promised to visit her the following year in the capital of the Greylocks.

The cathedral was finished.  There was no finer building under the sun
and artists and connoisseurs flocked from all parts of the world to see
it.  George received the commendations of the most critical and his name
was ranked among those of the greatest architects.

Proud of his work, yet ever modest, he together with his wife and child
returned to his home.

He found great rejoicings in progress when he crossed the frontiers, for
Moustache, the field-marshal, had just conquered another enemy, and by
the conditions of the treaty of peace another province came into the
possession of the Greylocks, making their kingdom then as large as that
of the queen's father.

When George entered the capital he found flags flying, heard bells
pealing, the explosions of mortars and firing of cannon, sometimes one
shot after another, sometimes a deafening salvo of many guns together,
and a thousand voices shouting "Hurrah, hurrah!  Long live Wendelin the
Lucky!"

The Assembly of States had decided the day before that the king by whom
the land had been so wonderfully extended, and whose government had been
so prosperous that not even a shadow of misfortune had fallen across it,
should be called: "Wendelin the Lucky."

This title of honour was to be seen on all the flags, triumphal arches,
transparencies, and even on the ginger-bread cakes in the cook-shops.

George and his lovely wife rejoiced with the other jubilant people, but
they were happiest when they were alone with his mother.

Wendelin XVI. received his brother and his brother's wife in the great
reception room, and even went further forward to meet him than the point
prescribed by the master of ceremonies; the queen made good this
violation of etiquette by remaining herself well within the boundaries
laid down.  After the feast Wendelin went with his brother onto the
balcony, and as he stood opposite to George and looked at him more
closely he let his languid eyelids droop, for it seemed to him that his
brother was a man of iron, and he suddenly felt as if his own backbone
were made of dough.

In the evening the lake was beautifully illuminated, and the day was to
end with a boating party on the water enlivened with music and fireworks.

In the first boat, on cushions of velvet and ermine, sat Wendelin XVI.
and his queen, in the second George and his beloved wife.  His mother
could not bear to be separated from these two, or to miss for even an
hour the happiness of having them with her.

The weather for the festivals was as perfect as they could have wished.
The full moon shone more brilliantly than usual, as if to congratulate
the king on his new title, the bells pealed forth their chimes again, a
chorus of maidens and boys in skiffs followed the state gondola of the
royal pair, singing the new song which had just been composed in their
honour, and which consisted of twenty-four stanzas, each one ending with
the lines:

"The luck and glory let us sing Of lucky Wendelin, our king!"

By his side sat his wife, who continued her complaints against the newly-
found brother, and urged her husband to make investigations as to whether
or not this architect were a true Greylock, "To be sure, both he and his
son have the grey lock," she said, "but then they both have light hair,
and the barber's craft has made great strides lately; and certainly that
fat-cheeked baby looks as if it belonged in the cradle of a peasant
rather than in that of a prince."  Wendelin XVI did not listen to what she
said; his heart was very heavy, and every time one of the bells rang out
above the others, or the chorus sang, "lucky Wendelin, our king,"
particularly distinctly and enthusiastically, he felt as if he were being
jeered at and ridiculed.  He longed to cry aloud in his shame and pain,
and to fly for comfort to his sympathetic mother and strong brother in
the other boat.  When he stared into the water it seemed as if the fish
made fun of him, and if he looked at the sky he imagined the moon made a
mocking grimace at him, and looked down scornfully at the wretched man
whom they called "fortunate."  He knew not where to gaze, he withdrew
within himself, and tried to shut his ears, while he wished to Heaven
that he could change places with the active sailor opposite who was
setting the purple sail with his brawny arms.

A light breeze wafted the royal gondola towards the island where the
fireworks were to be displayed.  The second boat followed at a short
distance.  George held his mother's hand and his wife's in his own, few
words were spoken, but their very silence betrayed the great treasure of
their love and happiness, and spoke more plainly than long discourses how
dear these three persons were to one another.

The royal gondola floated quietly past the cliff that separated the
southern from the northern part of the lake; no sooner had the second
boat approached it, however, than an unexpected and fearful gust of wind
blew suddenly from the clefts of the rocks and struck the boat, and
before the sailors had time to lower the sail threw it onto its beam
ends.  George sprang forward instantly to help the sailors right her, but
a second gust tore away the flapping sail, and capsized the gondola,
which was caught and carried to the bottom by a rushing eddy.  Both of
the women rose from the waves at George's side.  He grasped his mother,
and struggled bravely against the wind and current until he laid her on
the beach at the foot of the cliff.  Then he swam back as rapidly as he
could to the place of the accident.  His mother was safe, but his wife,
his beloved, his all?  To rescue her, or to drown with her was his sole
idea.

At that moment he perceived a long golden streak rising and falling with
the waves.  It was a lock of her hair, her wonderful silken hair.  With
mighty strokes he sped towards it, reached it, grasped it, then his
trembling hands felt her body and lifted her up.  She breathed, she
lived, and it depended on him to save her from the evil spirit, from
death.  With one arm he held her to him, with the other he parted the
waters; but the lake seemed to turn to a mighty torrent that bore down
upon him with its heavy waves.  He struggled, he fought with panting
breast, yet in vain, always in vain.  He felt that his strength was being
exhausted.  If no one came to his aid, he was lost; he raised his head to
look for help.

He saw his brother's gondola sailing as peacefully and undisturbed from
storm or accident as a swan in the moonlight, and the bitter thought
passed through his mind, that Wendelin was the lucky one, and that he had
been born to misfortune.

His arm was struggling with the tide once more, and this time more
successfully.  Then Speranza opened her eyes, recognized him, and,
kissing him on the forehead, murmured: "My own love, how good you are!"

From the cliff the duchess called to him:  "George, my best, my only
son!"  His heart warmed within him, all his bitterness disappeared, and
the waves seemed to rock him and the burden in his arms as in a cradle.
The picture of his mother floated before his vision, that of his child,
and of his beautiful work, the great indestructible cathedral, which he
had erected to the honour of God.  He reflected what sweet joy each new
spring had brought him, how he had been blessed in his work, what
exquisite delight he derived from all that was beautiful in the world.
No, no, no.  Of all the men on this earth, he, the child destined to
misfortune, was the happiest.  Overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude, he
returned his wife's kiss.  Saved!  She was saved!  He felt firm ground
beneath his feet; he lifted her on high; but, just as he laid her in the
strong arms that reached down from the cliff to receive her, a high wave
caught him and dragged him back into the deep, and the waters closed over
him.

The next morning a fisherman found his body.  George's wife and mother
were saved.  The wise men of the land said that the ill-starred child had
perished, as they had foreseen, and the people echoed their words.

In the mausoleum of the Greylocks only two places remained empty, and
these had to be kept for Wendelin the Lucky and his queen, consequently
the ill-omened son might not even rest in the grave of his fathers, and
George was buried on a green hillside, whence there was a beautiful view
of the lake and distant landscape.

King Wendelin the Lucky and his wife lived to a good old age.  After the
king became childish, he ceased to groan and whimper in the night, as he
had formerly done.  When he died, he was interred next to Queen Isabella,
in the coldest corner of the marble mausoleum, and no ray of sun ever
rested on his stone sarcophagus.  His son, Wendelin XVII., visited his
father's grave once a year, on All Saints' Day, and laid a dry wreath of
immortelles on the lid of the coffin.

George's resting-place was surrounded by bushes and flowers.  His mother
and wife and child visited it and cared for it.  When the spring came,
nightingales, redbreasts, finches and thrushes without number sang their
merry notes above the head of the unfortunate one who lay there.  His son
George grew to be the pride of his mother, and became a noble prince
in beautiful Italy.  Centuries have passed since then, yet to-day
enthusiastic artists still make pilgrimages to the hillside where the sun
shines so brightly, to lay wreaths on the grave of the great architect
George Peregrinus of the princely house of the Greylocks.

They at least do not regard him who lies there as one born to misfortune.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

At my age we count it gain not to be disappointed
Had laid aside what we call nerves
Like a clock that points to one hour while it strikes another
To-morrow could give them nothing better than to-day






THE NUTS

A Christmas Story for my Children and Grandchildren

By Georg Ebers



The wounded colonel, whom we were nursing back to health in our house,
was not allowed to walk long, and in the after noon, after he had
pottered about a little, he was obliged to rest in the comfortable old
easy-chair, which was known as grandfather's chair.

When twilight fell, our dear guest lighted the last of the three pipes,
which the doctor permitted him to smoke every day, and made a sign to the
children, which the young people obeyed gladly, for they loved to listen
to his stories.

The convalescent was under orders not to talk for more than half an hour
at a time, for his wounds were so severe that our experienced physician
declared it to be contrary to the laws of nature and quite phenomenal
that he should be among the living at all.

As for his stories, they had never failed to hold the attention of his
audience; this was partly due to the fact that he usually had to break
them off at the point where the interest had reached its climax.
Moreover, the deep voice of the narrator was much gentler than one would
have expected, after looking at the broad-shouldered, heavy figure, and
there lay in his suppressed, and often whispered tones a secret charm,
which the children were not the only ones to feel; besides which his eyes
produced their share of the profound impression, for every emotion that
disturbed his easily-excited soul found a reflection therein.

That the colonel openly preferred our six-year-old Hermy to his brothers
and sisters was due to the circumstance that the child had once burst
into tears at a look from the officer, which the latter employed to call
the children to order, if they were inattentive, or exhibited signs of
unbelief when he had not expected it.  After this Hermy was so evidently
his darling that there was no further chance for Hermy's younger sister,
who had at first promised to be the favourite, and I shall never forget
the soft, almost motherly, caressing tones that came from that grey-
bearded man with the large round head and strong face, when he sought to
comfort the child.

It was remarkable to see how easily this man, who was accustomed to
obedience, and famous for his bravery and keen energy, could become a
child among children.  He had lost a beloved wife, a little son, about
Hermy's age, and a young daughter, and no doubt our numerous family
reminded him of these departed ones.  As for his tales, he separated them
into distinct categories.  Some of them he began with the words: "Here I
am," and then he held himself strictly to the truth.  Others began: "Once
upon a time."  While the former were drawn mostly from his own full and
eventful life, the latter were fairy stories, pure and simple, sometimes
already well known, sometimes made up, wherein fairies, ghosts, elves,
gnomes, goblins and dragons, will-o'-the-wisps, nixies, kelpies and
dwarfs disported themselves.

Christmas was approaching, and the next day, Christmas-eve, the tree was
to be lighted.  On the twenty-third of December, a little while before
the hour for story-telling, Hermy came home, and exhibited to his
brothers the trifling presents, which he had chosen: an eraser for his
father, a lead-pencil for his mother, a bag of nuts for his grandmother,
and similar trifles which, though insignificant in themselves, had
nevertheless exhausted his little store of savings.  His elder brothers,
to whom he had exhibited with great pride these purchases, expressed none
of the admiration which he had expected, but began to tease him by
calling the things "trash," as indeed they were, and poking fun at the
"wonderful presents" of their small brother; they would have been less
cruel, perhaps, had he been one of their sisters.

Karl wanted to know what their father, who never was known to make a
drawing, would do with an eraser, and Kurt added that he did not see the
use of giving their grandmother nuts, when she had more in her own garden
than all of them put together would receive on ten Christmas-eves.

Bright tears gathered in the eyes of the little one, and he cast a
troubled look at his despised treasures, in which he had rejoiced so
heartily only a short time before.

He began to sob quietly, and saying dejectedly: "But I hadn't any more
money!"  he stuffed his gifts, shorn of their glamour into his pockets.

The colonel had watched the scene in silence; now, however, he drew his
favourite to him, kissed him, and caressed his fair curls.  Then he
invited him gaily to sit right close to him on the footstool, and bade
the other children to sit down, too, and told Karl and Kurt to keep their
ears wide open.

My wife and I entered at this moment--we heard later of what had
happened--and begged the colonel to allow us to listen also.  The
permission was willingly granted; after the lamp was brought, for it was
later than usual, and we had settled ourselves on the sofa, the colonel
stroked his moustache for some time, and began, after he had gazed
quietly before him for a moment: "To-day my story shall be called, 'The
Nuts.'  Does that please you, Hermy?"

The little one smiled at him expectantly and nodded his head.  The
colonel continued:

"You believe, no doubt, children, that no one ever came back from the
dead, and that therefore no mortal knows what Heaven looks like, nor
Hell.  But I--look at me well--I can tell you something about it."

Here he made a short pause while my wife handed him his pipe and a match.
The children looked at one another in doubt and suspicion, for this was
the first story of the colonel which had not begun with, "Here I am," or,
"Once upon a time," and they were consequently uncertain whether it was a
true story or one that he had made up.  Wolfgang, who is thirteen and my
oldest boy, and who already calls his younger brothers, "the young ones,"
--and promises to be a true child of the times, inclined to believe it
the latter, but even he sat up straighter and looked puzzled as the
colonel continued:

"The two balls that I have in here, and the sabre cut on my shoulder,--
but you know how and where I received them--to be brief, I sank from my
horse onto the grass in the afternoon, and not until the following
morning was I found by the ambulance corps and carried to the hospital.
There they brought me to life again.  In the interim--which lasted for
the half of a day and one whole night--I was certainly not alive like one
of you, or any other two-legged creature endowed with five senses."

With these words his penetrating eyes glanced from Karl to Kurt; the
girls caught hold of one another's hands and one could plainly read in
their expressions that they considered it rash to be in such close
proximity to a person who had erstwhile been dead.  It was fortunate for
them that the resuscitated colonel was so good, and that there was no
doubt about his actual existence, which was proved by his voice and the
smoke that he puffed into the air during every pause.

"Yes, children," he began anew, "a great wonder was worked on me, an old
man.  This long body here lay on the bloody ground among groaning men,
dying horses, broken gun-carriages, ammunition wagons, exploded
bombshells, and discarded weapons; but my soul--I cannot have been too
hardened  a sinner in  this world--my soul was permitted to soar to
Heaven.  One, two, three, as fast as you can say, 'That is an apple,' or
'The fair Ina has a pretty doll in her lap,' and it had arrived.  And
now--I can see it in your eyes--you would like to know how it seems in
Heaven, and God knows I cannot blame you, for it is beautiful,
marvellously beautiful, only unfortunately I am not allowed even to
attempt its description.  That must ever remain a mystery to the living
because--but  that  is  no  matter,  and  evil would befall me if I were
to chatter."

At this point the colonel was interrupted by many expressions of
disappointment, but he was resolute, and continued in a peremptory tone:

"That will do.  Description indeed is forbidden to me; but there are
certain of my experiences about which I may tell you.  So listen!  That
Hell lies underneath Heaven you have doubtless heard from some one or
other.  Naturally the holy dead see and hear nothing of the pains of the
lost, for that would entirely spoil the joys of Paradise for them; but
now and then--I believe once a year--it is given to the blessed to look
down into Hell.  There is, however, one condition in particular attached
to this privilege.  When the dome which conceals Hell from the sight of
the angels is opened, it is for the relief of the condemned.  God in his
mercy has decreed that the saints shall look down into the abyss in order
to tell St. Peter if they see among the damned any one from whom they
have received any benefit, or of whom they have even heard any good.  If
the keeper of Heaven's gate is pleased with the generous action which the
lost soul performed while on earth, he has the power of shortening the
time of punishment, or can even pardon it altogether, and bid it enter
into Paradise.

"As for me, I arrived in Paradise on a day when Hell was open to view,
and came to know, thereby, many strange things.  Ah!  That was the
hardest part of my story; I trust that you have understood it?"

The narrator's glance sought the children's eyes once more; but this time
questioningly rather than peremptorily.  When the young lips all cried
"yes," and "of course," he smiled, nodded his massive head amiably, and
continued:

"That the angels are full of pity, and glad to relieve the misery of the
unfortunate, whoever they are, and wherever they may be, goes without
saying, and it will not be necessary to tell you how diligently they
sought to remember some one good deed that might redound to the credit of
one of the lost.  But St. Peter is a mild and just judge, and the
gleaning yielded but a small return, for only a few of the angels could
recall any act that was worth mentioning.  It was also granted to me to
look into the place of torment, and the things I saw there were too
awful.  Picture it to yourself as you will!  When I recovered from the
horror that fell upon me, I recognized many men and women whom I had
known on earth.  Among them were many whom I had been accustomed to
consider pious and virtuous, and whom I had expected to find in a high
place in Heaven, rather than there below, and yet of those very persons
the Elect could recall the fewest deeds that had been done from purely
generous motives.  An act was mentioned of this one or that, which on the
surface seemed good, sometimes even great,--but there on high the springs
of human actions are open to view, as well as the real end, which the
author had in mind, and these were always such that those who had
performed the best deeds could be accredited with the least charitable
intention.  Their pious works had always been executed in order to make
them conspicuous in the eyes of men, or to attain for themselves some
distinction, or to flatter their vanity, or to arouse the envy of their
neighbours, or to contribute in some indirect way to the increase of
their riches.  Perhaps you may not altogether understand what I mean; but
no matter, your mother may explain as much as she thinks good for you.

"The poor things who were disappointed, as well as the unfortunate ones
for whom no voice was raised, made me very unhappy; but I could do
nothing for them.

"Among the latter I noticed a woman whom I had known well on earth, and
who deserved to be among the lost, I thought.  I had never anticipated
any other sentence for her.  You do not understand, children, what a cold
heart is; but hers had been either ice or stone.  Although she had
possessed more than was needed to gratify her own wants, she could never
be moved by the most touching appeals of the poorest to relieve their
distress.  She had used other people to satisfy her selfish desires and
then discarded them ruthlessly.  She had gone through life without loving
one single soul--of that I felt convinced--and no one had loved her, and
she had died unregretted.  She must have been as wretched on earth as she
was there in Hell; for which of us can be happy here, if we do not love
and are not loved?

"'There is no chance of a voice being raised in her favour,' I said to
myself.  But I was wrong; for at that moment a lovely angel-child flew
past me on its blue and white wings.  Without any sign of fear it flew
direct to St. Peter, who looked formidable enough with his long beard and
great keys, and, pointing with its little forefinger to the hard-hearted
woman, cried: 'She once gave me a handful of nuts.'

"'Really,'  answered the  keeper of Heaven.  'That was not much, and yet
I am surprised; for that woman would not part with so much as a pin,
during her life.  But you little one, who were you on earth?'

"'Little Hannele was my name,' answered the angel.  'I died of
starvation, and only once did any one give me anything in my life
to make me happy, and that was that woman yonder.'

"'Marvellous,' answered Peter, stroking his white beard.  'No doubt the
nuts were given as a miserly payment of some service you did her.'

"'No, no,' the angel answered decidedly.

"'Well, tell us how it happened then,' the apostle commanded, and the
dear little soul obeyed:

"'My sick mother and I lived in the city all alone, for father was dead.
Just before Christmas we had nothing more to eat.  So mother, though she
lay in bed and her head and hands were burning, made some little sheep of
bits of wood and cotton and I carried them to the Christmas market.
There I sat on some steps and offered them for sale to the passers-by;
but nobody wanted them.  Hours passed, and it was very cold; the open
wound in my knee, which no one saw, pained me so, and the frost in my
fingers and toes burned and itched dreadfully.  Evening came, the lamps
were lighted, but I dared not go home; for only one person had thrown a
copper into my lap, and I needed more to buy a bit of bread and a few
coals.  My own pangs hurt me, but that mother lay at home alone, with no
one to hand her anything, or support her when her breathing became
difficult, hurt me still more.  I could hardly bear to sit on the cold
steps any longer, and my eyes were blind with tears.  A barrel was set
down in front of the house, and while a clerk was rolling it over the
sidewalk into the shop, the stream of passers was stopped.  That woman
there--I remember her well--stood still in front of me.  I offered her
one of my sheep, and looked at her through my tears.  She seemed so hard
and stern, that I thought: 'She won't give me anything.'  But she did.
It seemed suddenly as if her face grew softer, and her eyes kinder.  She
glanced at me, and before I knew it, she had put her hand in the bag
which she carried on her arm, and thrown the nuts into my lap.  The cask
had been rolled into the shop by this time, and the throng of people
carried her along.  She tried to stop.  It was not easy, and she only did
it to toss me a second, third, and fourth handful of the most beautiful
walnuts.  I can still see it all, as if it were to-day!  Then she felt in
her pocket, probably to get some money for me, but the press of people
was too strong for her to stand against it longer.  I doubt if she heard
that I thanked her.'

"Here the angel broke off, and threw a kiss to the condemned woman, and
St. Peter asked her how it happened that she, who had been so deaf to all
appeals from the poor, had been so sweetly generous to the child.

"The tormented woman answered amid her loud sobs: 'The tearful eyes of
the little one reminded me of my small sister, who died a painful death
before I had grown to be hard and wicked, and a strange sensation--I know
not how it happened myself--overpowered me.  It seemed as if my heart
warmed within me, and something seemed to say to me that I would never
forgive myself as long as I lived, and would be even unhappier than I
was, if I did not give the child something to rejoice over at Christmas
time.  I longed to draw her towards me and kiss her.  After I had tossed
her half of the nuts, which I had just bought, I felt happier than I had
for many a day, and I would certainly have given her some money, though
only a little .  .  .  .'

"But Peter interrupted her.  He had heard enough, and as he knew that it
was impossible for any one in Heaven or Hell to tell an untruth, he
nodded to her, saying: 'That was, beyond dispute, a good deed, but it is
too small to counterbalance the great weight of your bad deeds.  Perhaps
it may lighten your punishment.  Still great riches were meted out to you
on earth, and what were a few nuts to you!  The motive that urged you to
bestow them is pleasing in the sight of the Lord, I acknowledge; but as I
said before, your charity was too paltry for you to be released from your
pains because of it.'

"He turned to go, but a clear voice of wonderful sweetness held him back.
It was that of the Saviour, who advanced with majestic dignity towards
the apostle and spoke: 'Let us first hear if the alms-giving of which we
have just learned was really too small to plead for leniency towards this
sinning soul.  Let us hear'--turning to the angel--'what became of the