stories, his own little brown face growing red with excitement as
his imagination glowed to fever heat. That human being on the
panels, who was drawn there as a baby in a cradle, as a boy
playing among flowers, as a lover sighing under a casement, as a
soldier in the midst of strife, as a father with children round
him, as a weary, old, blind man on crutches, and, lastly, as a
ransomed soul raised up by angels, had always had the most intense
interest for August, and he had made, not one history for him, but
a thousand; he seldom told them the same tale twice. He had never
seen a storybook in his life; his primer and his Mass book were
all the volumes he had. But nature had given him Fancy, and she is
a good fairy that makes up for the want of very many things!
only, alas! her wings are so very soon broken, poor thing! and
then she is of no use at all.

"It is time for you all to go to bed, children," said Dorothea,
looking up from her spinning. "Father is very late to-night; you
must not sit up for him."

"Oh, five minutes more, dear Dorothea!" they pleaded; and little
rosy and golden Ermengilda climbed up into her lap. "Hirschvogel
is so warm, the beds are never so warm as he. Cannot you tell us
another tale, August?"

"No," cried August, whose face had lost its light, now that his
story had come to an end, and who sat serious, with his hands
clasped on his knees, gazing on to the luminous arabesques of the
stove.

"It is only a week to Christmas," he said suddenly.