When the good Monks discovered the escape of the Prince they were
greatly grieved, for they had tried their best to do well by him; and
poor Peter could with difficulty be comforted. He had been very fond
of the Prince, although the latter had done little except torment him
for the whole year; but Peter had a way of being fond of folks.

A few days after the Prince ran away, and the day before the one on
which the Christmas presents were to be gathered, the nearsighted
father went out into the wax doll field again; but this time he had
his spectacles on, and could see just as well as any one, and even
a little better. Peter's little sister was swinging herself on her
crutches, in the place where the wax doll did not come up, tipping her
little face up, and smiling just like the dolls around her.

"Why, what is this!" said the father. "_Hoc credam!_ I thought that
wax doll did not come up. Can my eyes deceive me? _non verum est!_
There is a doll there--and what a doll! on crutches, and in poor,
homely gear!"

Then the nearsighted father put out his hand toward Peter's little
sister. She jumped--she could not help it, and the holy father jumped
too; the Christmas wreath actually tumbled off his head.

"It is a miracle!" exclaimed he when he could speak; "the little girl
is alive! _parra puella viva est._ I will pick her and take her to the
brethren, and we will pay her the honors she is entitled to."

Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, for he dare not
venture before his abbot without it, picked up Peter's little sister,
who was trembling in all her little bones, and carried her into the