love for me alone,
and would be a very charming companion if I had time to devote to her
pretty ways.' So you see Franz and Hofer are in France," says the old
man, taking off his spectacles.

My heart has grown cold and heavy all in a moment, and I have to lean on
the back of a chair for support.

"Who, then, is Fifine?" I ask, under my breath.

"Aha!" cries the Herr postmaster, "who, indeed? but what is it to thee?
I now, his father, might well ask; but there it is, no sooner does a
young honest fellow go out of Germany than he is thrown into the company
of these cats of Frenchwomen, and then--but I must say good-night.
Good-night, madam. Good-night, girls."

So he is gone, and the dear mistress and I look in each other's face,
and both cry "Oh!" but say no more.

So I go not to watch by the wall; but Bertha goes, and still she says it
is Hofer will bring the dear master home. The child, we say, is gone
silly with sitting on the wall in the cold, for sometimes she will come
in without her cloak; but yet we have not the heart to forbid her going
thither.

One, two, three, four days, and it is the blessed eve. We are all so
still, and our hearts are heavy, so we go about softly, as though some
one were sick or dead, when it is but our own hearts, or hopes, or
fancies, that seem dead. The dear little ones are quiet now, for we are
in the small room by the window, and as the last chime of sundown sounds
from the church, the candles on the Christmas-tree are lighted, and
shine on the pretty gifts that hang upon the branches. The dear mother
hugs the children to her heart; outside the twinkle and beaming of the
candles makes a short track of light upon the snow; the signal is all
a-glow. Will the wanderer return to-night? Where is Bertha? What is this
white-armed, loose-haired figure, flying up the path? Her hand is on the
door-latch, and as she stands there, wan and panting, she cries, "They
come! they come! The ox-wagon is now upon the hill. I saw it coming
through the snow, and the lantern shone upon the epaulette and the
buttons." She speaks and is gone, and we, the dear mistress and I, go to
the kitchen, where I stand, with a heart of lead and hands of ice.

There is a tramp of feet, a shout, the door bursts open--the dear
mistress is in her husband's arms--the little ones are clinging to him.
"Take care of my leg, darlings," he says; "the bone has not grown too
strong just yet, and I doubt if ever I shall bend