The woman and the child stood speechless with joy and fear: Patrasche
vainly spent the fury of his anguish against the iron-bound oak of the
barred house-door. They did not dare unbar the door and let him forth:
they tried all they could to solace him. They brought him sweet cakes and
juicy meats; they tempted him with the best they had; they tried to lure
him to abide by the warmth of the hearth; but it was of no avail.
Patrasche refused to be comforted or to stir from the barred portal.

It was six o'clock when from an opposite entrance the miller at last came,
jaded and broken, into his wife's presence. "It is lost forever," he said,
with an ashen cheek and a quiver in his stern voice. "We have looked with
lanterns everywhere: it is gone--the little maiden's portion and all!"

His wife put the money into his hand, and told him how it had come to her.
The strong man sank trembling into a seat and covered his face, ashamed
and almost afraid. "I have been cruel to the lad," he muttered at length:
"I deserved not to have good at his hands."

Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her father and nestled
against him her fair curly head. "Nello may come here again, father?" she
whispered. "He may come to-morrow as he used to do?"

The miller pressed her in his arms: his hard, sunburned face was very pale
and his mouth trembled. "Surely, surely," he answered his child. "He shall
bide here on Christmas Day, and any other day he will. God helping me, I
will make amends to the boy--I will make amends."

Little Alois kissed him in gratitude and joy, then slid from his knees and
ran to where the dog kept watch by the door. "And to-night I may feast
Patrasche?" she cried in a child's thoughtless glee.