"Yes," said the father, "you will find it true enough. The peddler has
paid half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow
when he packs up the stove and takes it away."

"Oh, father! dear father!" cried poor little Karl, "you cannot mean
what you say. Send our stove away? We shall all die in the dark and
cold. Listen! I will go and try to get work to-morrow. I will ask them
to let me cut ice or make the paths through the snow. There must be
something I can do, and I will beg the people we owe money to, to
wait. They are all neighbors; they will be patient. But sell
Hirschvogel! Oh, never, never, never! Give the money back to the man."

The father was so sorry for his little boy that he could not speak. He
looked sadly at him; then took the lamp that stood on the table, and
left the room.

Hilda knelt down and tried to comfort Karl, but he was too unhappy to
listen. "I shall stay here," was all he said, and he lay there all the
night long. The lamp went out; the rats came and ran across the room;
the room grew colder and colder. Karl did not move, but lay with his
face down on the floor by the lovely rainbow-colored stove. When it
grew light, his sister came down with a lamp in her hand to begin her
morning work. She crept up to him, and laid her cheek on his softly,
and said:--

"Dear Karl, you must be frozen. Karl! do look up; do speak."

"Ah!" said poor Karl, "it will never be warm again."

Soon after some one knocked at the door. A strange voice called