er," he said, with courteous sympathy, "that
you should have lost your foster-son, to whom report says you were much
attached. And I hear also that the young man promised highly in his
calling."

"Then you heard not all," answered the stone-mason, slowly. "Gabriel did
more, for he fulfilled his promise."

A sudden light came into the artist's eyes. "It is true, then," he said,
eagerly, "that the boy left behind him a rare piece of work, which has
not yet been seen outside these walls. I heard the rumor, but thought it
idle folly."

Peter Burkgmaeier crossed the room and opened a deep cupboard. "You shall
see it," he said simply, "and answer for yourself. No one in Nuremberg
is more fit to judge." Then, lifting out something wrapped in a heavy
cloth, he carried it to the table, unveiled it with a reverent hand,
and, stepping back, waited in silence for a verdict.

There was a long, breathless pause, broken only by the low whir of
Lisbeth's busy wheel. Veit Stoss stood motionless, while Peter's eyes
never stirred from the table before them. There, carved in the fair
white wood, rested the divine Babe, as on that blessed Christmas night
when his Mother "wrapped him up in swaddling-clothes and laid him in a
manger." The lovely little head nestled on its rough pillow as though on
Mary's bosom; the tiny limbs were relaxed in sleep; the whole figure
breathed at once the dignity of the Godhead and the pathetic
helplessness of babyhood. Instinctively one loved, and pitied, and
adored. Nor was this all. Every broken bit of straw that thrust its
graceful, fuzzy head from between the rough bars of the manger, every
twisted knot of grass, every gnarl and break in the wood itself, had
been wrought with the tender accuracy of the true artist, who finds
nothing too simple for his utmost care and skill.

Veit Stoss drew a heavy breath and turned to his companion. "It is a
masterpiece," he said, gravely, "which I should be proud to call my own.
I congratulate you on the possession of so great a treasure."

"It is not mine," returned the artisan, "but my daughter's. Gabriel
wrought it for her wedding-gift."

The wood-carver's keen blue eyes scanned Kala's pretty, stolid face,
and then wandered to Sigmund's broad shoulders and mighty bulk. A faint,
derisive smile curled his well-cut lips. "Your daughter's beauty merits,
indeed, the rarest of all rare tokens," he said, slowly. "But perhaps
there are other things more needful to a yo