e it a debt of gratitude, too, but for an entirely different
service,' said a beautiful angel, as it bowed its crowned head reverently
before the Son of God. 'My lot below was a very hard one. I was early
left a widow, and I supported my children entirely by the work of my
hands. By dint of great effort I brought them up well, and my three sons
grew to be brave men, who took care of themselves, and helped their
mother. But all three, my Master, were lost to me, taken away by the
unfathomable wisdom of the Father. Two fell in war, the third was killed
by the machinery while at his work. That broke my strength, and when they
brought me to the hospital I was on the verge of despair, and life seemed
a greater burden than I could bear. Your image, my Saviour, had just been
finished by a sculptor, who had carved it from the wood of the nut-tree
by the Fresh Spring. They put it up opposite to my bed. It represented
you, my Lord, on the cross, and your head bowed in agony, with its crown
of thorns, was a very sorrowful sight. Yet I paid but small heed to it.
One morning, however--it was the anniversary of the death of my two dear
sons, who had lost their lives, fighting bravely side by side for their
Fatherland--on that morning the sun fell upon your sad face, and bleeding
hands pierced by the nails, and then I reflected how bitterly you had
suffered, though innocent, that you might redeem us, and how your mother
must have felt to lose such a child. Then a voice asked me if I had any
right to complain, when the Son of God himself had willingly endured such
torments for our sake, and I felt compelled to answer no, and determined
then to bear patiently whatever might be laid upon me, a poor, sinful
woman. Thenceforth, my Lord, was your image my consolation and, since the
wood of which it was made came from the tree planted by Hannele near the
Fresh Spring, I owe beyond doubt the better years that followed, and the
joy of being with you in Paradise, my Saviour, to the nuts which that
condemned woman gave to the child.'

"Humbly she bowed her head again. The Son of God turned to St. Peter,
saying: 'Well, Peter?'

"The latter called to the guardians of Hell: 'Let her go free, the gates
of Heaven are open to her. How rich and manifold, O Lord! is the fruit
that springs from the smallest gift offered in true love!'

"'You are right,' answered the Saviour, gently, and turned away."

The colonel had talked for a longer time than was a