Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at
the end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe
in the manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of
angels and their midnight song. All the people listened, charmed
into stillness.

But the boy Bernhard, on Irma's knee, folded by her soft arm, grew
restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at
his mother's ear.

"Mother," whispered the child, "why did you cry out so loud, when
the priest was going to send me to Valhalla?"

"Oh, hush, my child," answered the mother, and pressed him closer
to her side.

"Mother," whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains
upon her breast, "see, your dress is red! What are these stains?
Did some one hurt you?"

The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. "Dear, be still, and
listen!"

The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the
last words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers,
flying over the hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child
wondered and dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright.
He put his lips close to Irma's cheek again.

"Oh, mother!" he whispered very low, "do not speak. Do you hear