 | This, that and the other |  |
CHRISTIANA: OR, THE CHRISTMAS GIFT.
A GERMAN TALE.
“And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst
of them,
“And said, Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become
as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever,
therefore, shall humble himself as this little child, the same is
greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
“And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me!”
Holy Scripture.
It was the evening before Christmas. The Hartz Mountains
were covered with snow, and the trees looked as beautiful, in
their white drapery, as the choir of white-robed village maidens,
that scatter flowers on a bridal morning. The moonlight fell in
a flood of glory over all, smoothing away the roughnesses of the
sleeping world, even as the roughnesses are smoothed away from
our life-paths when we look at them in the clear light of
eternity.
Everything wore a holy peace in the home of Gottlieb Schwiden,
the forester. Gottlieb had been out all day in the forest,
gathering up boughs, and piling wood into fagots. He had
worked later than usual, for it was the day before Christmas,
and his wife had got all things ready for his return. Her two
eldest boys, Carl and Johan, had gone out with their father to
help in the fagot-binding. Marie, a quiet, womanly girl of
window to watch for her father's return; while the other children,
Maud and Katrine, and even the little Heinrich in his
cradle, were still and quiet in the hush of the Christmas
evening.
The fire burned brightly on the broad hearth, and the reflection
of its rays made the little looking-glass opposite flash like
a great diamond, from out its frame of green twigs and holly-berries.
In one corner, Gertrude Schwiden had spread her
husband's supper-table. It was a round table of smooth pineboards,
but on it lay a cloth white as the snow on the top of the
Hartz Mountains, and the supper of hot oat-meal cakes and
honey, and goats' milk, was good and plentiful.
Gertrude, herself, was a kind, motherly woman of forty, still
handsome, with just the good-humored, loving face a man likes
to find smiling on him when he comes home at night.
Gertrude's father and mother were poor cottagers, and she
had not many folds of linen to her dowry; but Gottlieb Schwiden,
though he never met her at fairs, or market-days, had seen
her come to church on the Sabbath, with her simple straw
bonnet, and her old grandmother leaning upon her arm; and so
he said, “She who makes so good a daughter will certainly
prove a good wife.” And he had taken the portionless Gertrude
with a glad heart to his cottage in the forest.
Gottlieb was considered a “well-to-do” young man, as poor
folks reckon such things. He owned his snug little cottage on
the borders of the forest, and was a forester, as his father had
been before him, for the Dukes of Saxe-Coburg. But yet, during
the twenty years of his married life, he had only been able,
increasing family. But he had a portion better than riches, for
he was pious and contented; and one wiser than you, or I, or
Gottlieb Schwiden, has said, “Godliness with contentment is
great gain.”
His wife had been all to him that he hoped — the cheerful
fellow-worker, the sympathizing friend, the godly mother of his
children. And now, this Christmas evening, she had swept up
her little room, and garnished it with evergreens, and, taking the
little Heinrich from his cradle, she sat down before the fire with
a quiet smile, to await her husband's return.
At last there were quick steps outside, and in rushed the two
boys, Carl and Johan, with their rosy cheeks, and eyes sparkling
with exercise and good-humor.
“Hurra, mother, for Christmas! nothing to do to-morrow;
but we are just as hungry as bears — can't we have supper?”
“Yes, boys, presently; but where is your father?”
“O, he won't be home, these two hours. One of the big black
oaks has blown down, and he staid to cut it up and bind it.
You know the moon shines so, it is as light as day.”
“Well, sit down, then, and eat your supper; the oat-cakes are
beginning to get cold, and I 'll make some new ones, and have
them hot for your father.”
It was nine o'clock before Gottlieb Schwiden lifted the latch
of the little cottage. When at last he entered, he bore with
him a large-sized wicker basket, with a card attached to the
cover, on which was printed, in good black ink,
“A Christmas Gift for Gottlieb Schwiden and his wife Gertrude.”
“Well, wife, what can this be?” cried the forester, as he set
the basket down upon the table. “Get your shears, and just cut
these cords, and we 'll see in a trice.”
Gertrude quickly cut the cords, and then they lifted the cover
from the basket, and found — what do you guess, wise old people
that are reading? — and what do you guess, dear little children?
It was a baby, — not a common little baby, but one fair, and
sweet, and beautiful, as a fairy-baby, or a snow-child.
It was sound asleep when they opened the basket, but in a
moment the joyful cries of the children awoke it, and, with a
smile, it opened wide its great blue eyes. O, such a beautiful
child as it was!
“Not so pretty as our baby,” I hear one and another of you
say, little boy and girl readers! May be you would n't think
so, for you love your own baby best; but forget him just now,
and imagine yourself a little German child, with no playthings
at all, in a small house in the forest; and suppose, on a Christmas
evening, some one should send you a real live little baby,
with nose and eyes and mouth just like other children, only ten
times fairer and sweeter than any of them. I guess you would
say it was a beauty; or, if you would n't, the little German children
in the forest did, and that 's just as well for my story.
The little one had great, fearless blue eyes, clear as the blue
sky on a summer evening, when the air-fairies have stolen away
all the clouds to make castles of; then she had such sunny
curls — you would have thought, surely, some fairy had been
bribing the big giant who tends the fires of the sun, and had
stolen away some of his sunbeams to bind the baby's forehead.
I don't know as you would have seen anything uncommon
but Maud and Katrine and Marie thought them the most remarkable
toes and fingers that ever were seen. But one thing
you would have thought strange — the baby bore all this examination
patiently, turning her great smiling eyes from one to
another, and “never cried a word;” while, you know, in church
last Sunday, your baby, if she did n't cry words, cried a great
many other things that were worse than words.
But, while we have been talking, they have left the baby in
the basket; and now, Gertrude, who has quietly warmed some
goat's milk, takes it out, and gives it some supper.
All this time Gottlieb had stood silent, with a puzzled face,
half smiling, now and then, at the delight of the children. At
last he came and sat down by his wife, as, with her loving, motherly
eyes, full of quiet tears, she was giving the stranger its cup
of milk.
“Pretty little thing, is n't she, Gertrude?” he said, at length.
“I must carry her off to Dame Purtzell's in the morning. She
takes care of the poor, you know. I declare I hate to take it
away, it 's so pretty.”
“Surely, Gottlieb,” said the wife, turning away her meek
eyes, “you don't mean to give away our Christmas present to
any one else? We don't know what a blessing may have been
sent with the gentle, fearless little thing. You will let me keep
her, won't you?”
“But, Gertrude, we have hardly enough for these,” and he
turned his fatherly eye on his own seven children; “how can
we get bread enough for another?”
“Surely, my husband,” said Gertrude, meekly, “the Lord
little child in my name, receiveth me'? He provides for the
sparrows, and He will provide for us, His children, and those He
has given us.”
“You are right, as you always are, my wife Gertrude; you
shall have the child;” and Gottlieb Schwiden arose, and went to
the supper-table.
An hour later, and the children had all gone to bed, save
Heinrich, who was sleeping in his cradle, and the little stranger
lying in Gertrude's arms. The wife sat thoughtfully beside her
husband, and the fire-light shone flickering over her, and the fair
child in her arms, making a beautiful picture, that some artist
might have wrought out on the canvas, and won himself a
name. But no artist was there to see it; there was only Gottlieb,
and he sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire.
“Wife,” said he, at last, “what will you name your Christmas
gift? We do not know that she has ever been baptized,
and we will take her to the church to-morrow, and have her
christened.”
“I have been thinking of that, Gottlieb, and I thought, as she
was given to us as a Christmas gift, like a Christ-child, we
would call her Christiana.”
“Well, Gertrude, she is yours; you can name her what you
will. She 's a fair, sweet little thing, and looks pure enough for
an angel, as she lies there upon your lap. You know the good
book says some have entertained angels unawares.”
Merrily rang all the church-bells, far and near, on the bright
Christmas morning.
Gayly flashed the snow-crested tops of the Hartz Mountains,
and the tall trees of the forest spread out their long, white-robed
arms, like so many bishops, all saying a benediction. The
breakfast-table had been cleared away in the little cottage of
Gottlieb Schwiden, the mother had hung the Christmas turkey
up to roast, and, leaving Marie at home to watch the turkey and
the children, she was making ready to go to church with her
husband, her two oldest boys, her daughter Maud, and the little
Christmas child.
The comfortable sled, with its wolf-skins and bear-skins, stood
at the door, with the same strong donkey fastened to it which
was Gottlieb's patient companion in all his journeys through the
forest. The wife looked very fair to her husband's eyes, in her
quiet, holy, matronly beauty, as she stood there before him in
her plain, gray woollen dress, and her Sunday cloak and hood.
But fairer still, and far more beautiful, was the little one she
held in her arms.
It wore the same dress it had on when they found it; for, said
Gertrude, “I will give it to God in the same garments in which
he gave it to me.”
It was a delicate little robe of richly-wrought muslin, finer
and softer than anything that had ever before been seen inside
the forester's cottage. Outside this was many a wrapping of
soft, warm flannel, and on her golden curls was placed a little
cap, with its delicate frill of lace, just shading the fair, spiritual
face. “Dear child!” whispered Gertrude, as she clasped it to
her bosom. She took her seat in the sled beside her husband,
and then, turning to Gottlieb, remarked —
“I hope the little one won't cry very much. Our other children
child takes to the water naturally.”
“Are there any children to be baptized this morning?” asked
the old pastor, standing up in his place before he began the
services.
Gottlieb Schwiden arose, and walked to the altar. “I have
brought one,” he answered.
The old man smiled, as he said, “Another lamb for the church
of Christ? God hath blessed thee very abundantly, my son.”
“Yes, my father, and this one is God-given,” answered the
forester; and, standing up there before the congregation, he told
the story of his little foundling, and begged that thanks might
be returned in his name to the good God who had sent the
Christmas gift.
“Let the child be presented for baptism,” said the pastor at
the close of the lessons; and Gottlieb Schwiden stepped forward
to the altar, with Gertrude, his wife. At the same moment,
into the church came a lady very bright and beautiful. Her
face was pure as the angel faces we see in the clouds at sunset,
and her rich robes swept the rush-matting of the long aisle.
“I am the child's godmother,” she said to Gertrude, in a low
and gentle tone, approaching the altar. “You will never see
me again till the little one shall need me; but my influence will
be around her, and I shall be powerful to protect her, in more
ways than you dream of now. Will you give her to me?”
For a moment Gertrude hesitated. She thought of spirits,
and genii, and the beautiful sisters of the Hartz Mountains, and
she turned once more an earnest, curious look upon the stranger.
The child looked at her, too, with its great blue eyes, and,
broke over its baby face; and Gertrude said, “The child is wiser
than I, for she has been a shorter time out of heaven.” Then
turning, she put the babe in the strange lady's arms, and made a
sign to the pastor to proceed.
In a few moments the sacred rite was over. All this time, the
same sweet smile was on the fair child's face, and just parted her
rose-bud lips. Not until the strange lady gave her back to Gertrude's
arms did it fade away; then, for a moment, the little
Christiana closed her eyes in a kind of patient sorrow; and at
length, as if weary, laid her head down upon her foster-mother's
breast.
The turkey was indeed nicely done, and the mother found the
table spread, and the children neatly dressed for their Christmas
supper.
When it was over, the father piled fresh Yule logs on the fire,
and, taking his baby Heinrich on his knee, sat down before it;
and the mother drew up her low seat in the midst of her children,
with the little Christiana lying upon her lap.
Sitting there, as the night-shadows lengthened, she told of
that other Christmas, centuries ago, when the divine Christ-child
had been born in the lowly manger at Bethlehem.
“And was the great God really a weeny, little baby, like this
new sister Christiana?” asked the little Maud, lifting unconsciously
her large, thoughtful eyes.
“Yes, dear,” answered the mother reverently. “Just such a
grow up among men, and as man be tempted.”
“And could n't He stir, any more than Christie, — nor walk,
nor talk, nor creep, nor anything?”
“No, my darlings; He became a little, weak infant, and, like
other babies, had to be nursed and tended.”
“I 've been thinking, mother,” said Marie, very thoughtfully,
“that when the God-child was born there, it was as if the whole
world had had a glorious Christmas present; for you say, mother,
He came to die for all men.”
“Yes, dear child, it was indeed the world's Christmas present;
but, even as little Christie, last night, would have done us no
good, but rather been a condemnation to us, if we had not
brought her into the house and accepted her, so the divine gift
of a Saviour will do us no good, if we do not accept him, and
bring him into the house of our hearts.”
The children listened to their mother in silent earnestness; and
later still, when she told them of the great Christmas fires in
lordly castles, and the Christmas trees, where the rich gifts hang
like fruit, with glistening eyes they stole softly up, on tiptoe, to
the little one lying there, in the fire-shine, on their mother's lap,
and kissed her, with hearts thankful for the richer Christmas gift
that had been theirs.
Years passed away. The Hartz Mountains rose solemnly, as of
old; the great trees in the forest seemed unchanged, as the mosses
grew gray upon their trunks in summer, or the snows of winter
dressed them in fantastic winding-sheets. But there had been
was becoming slightly bowed, and his step getting a little slower,
while many a thread of silver was braided in his wife's fair hair.
Carl and Johan had built their houses near at hand, and brought
home quiet, sensible German girls, for their wives. A handsome
young forester, too, came often to the house, on Sundays and
holidays; and the mother sighed as her glance rested on Marie's
quiet little figure, and thought how soon it must go forth to
gladden another home.
Christiana, too, had grown up along with the other children,
and every day she seemed more and more worthy of her name.
Many a traveller along the forest road would pause to look upon
the fair, spiritual face, with its large blue eyes; and many a shining
silver piece found its way, through her little fingers, into the
coffers of the good man Gottlieb Schwiden.
There was a deserted wayside chapel near at hand, almost in
ruins; but there hung a picture of the Virgin, untouched by the
wasting hand of time, for it was a glorious old masterpiece,
and no one saw it but to wonder how it had chanced to hang in
such a shrine. This was the little Christiana's favorite resort.
Gertrude had many times told her the story of her christening,
and always added that the sweet face of her unknown godmother
was as like to the picture in the ruined chapel as if the
Virgin had stepped out of her frame to come to the christening.
Therefore the fair child loved the sweet face of the Virgin,
and studied it until it looked forth at her from every cloud, and
smiled up at her from each stream in the forest. And, strange
to say, people said the child's own face grew like to the blessed
Virgin's, as if features could take coloring from thought. And
think of God, and heaven, and angels, and all things good and
pure, your faces will grow pure and sweet also, like the disciple
whom Jesus loved; but always a wicked heart looks out of
wicked eyes.
Well, as I was saying, the sweet child Christiana grew every
day fairer and purer; and, at thirteen years old, her beauty was
famed in all the country round. One day, in the sunny German
summer, a young artist appeared at the forester's cottage. Whether
he had heard of Christiana's beauty, and wished to paint her, or
whether, as he said, he came only to see the wayside Virgin, I
do not know; but certain it is he staid six weeks at the cottage,
and painted, not the Virgin, but Christiana; and these six weeks
seemed the happiest of the fair child's life.
They wandered together to many a sunny nook in the dim forest,
and sat beside the deep streams, where the water-spirits
combed out their long hair, and bound it up with lotus-flowers;
singing strangely sweet German melodies, the while! Then they
strayed into the sunny glades, where the strawberries blushed,
and the grapes grew purple in the long, blue summer; and the
artist opened another leaf of the great world, for the child's
large blue eyes to read.
He told her of distant cities, where the ladies' hair was braided
up with jewels, and their robes were wrought with gold; where
silk rustled, and plumes nodded, through the long halls hung with
pictures, and flashing with mirrors; and the girl listened with a
pleased, half-doubtful wonder, opening wider, the while, those
large blue eyes.
But she loved best to learn of him the pleasant lore of the
breath as she thought of tall forms stealing over the Hartz
Mountains, and through the lonesome passes of the forest. To
the artist she seemed but a child; fair and gentle, indeed, but a
child still.
Her foster-sister Maud was, if the thing be possible, almost as
beautiful as herself; but it was a very different style of beauty.
While Christiana might have claimed kindred with the angels,
— for, looking in her face, you would have dreamed some band of
seraphs had strayed earthward, and left one of their number behind,
by a mistake, — Maud's beauty was essentially earthly.
Well had the forester been rewarded for his care of his Christmas
gift, by the influence she exerted on his other daughters.
It was impossible to be rude, or harsh, in the pure, sweet presence
of the Christmas-child; and so Maud and Katrine had grown
up to be calm, graceful girls, with much of Christiana's poetitemperament
blending with their German common sense.
Maud had still the dark, thoughtful eyes of her childhood,
large and bright, and yet full of shadows among their brightness;
but her strong physical organization had imparted to them an
unfailing cheerfulness, which sometimes deepened into mirth.
Her figure was full, almost voluptuous, in its outline; while Christiana's
had the pliant, breezy gracefulness of the drooping willow.
Five years Christiana's senior, she had already ripened into
the beautiful woman of eighteen, and on her the young artist,
Ernest Heine, looked with eyes of love.
True, he saw the sweet Christmas-child was the one who truly
appreciated his genius; who shared his rapture as the sun went
down behind the mountains, flinging back the robe of his glory
as he might have loved the muse of his art, clothed in mortality;
but of such love as man gives woman he never thought.
Upon Maud he looked as a beautiful flower, from whose petals
no other touch had ever rifled the sweetness, and he longed to
wear her in his bosom; nor did he leave the forest until he had
won Gottlieb's consent to call her his, and claim her, when two
more years had silvered the larches, and left their tribute of moss
on the gnarled trunks of the oaks.
And Maud loved him as such girls can love, with a love that
deepened the rose on her cheek, and the light in her eye; but
yet, if Ernest Heine had come no more to the cottage, her heart
would not have broken, or her step grown heavy, and by and by,
like her sister, she would have gone, contented and happy, to be
the mistress of some other home. The artist left, and, as the
spirit of the Summer clasped hands with Autumn, and walked
backward over her fair domain, the slight figure of the Christmas-child
grew thinner, and slighter, until she seemed more than
ever akin to the angels.
That winter there came a messenger to the forest. The emperor
had heard of the fame of the wayside Madonna, and sent
for it to adorn a new chapel, in process of erection in the imperial
grounds. It was a sore grief to Christiana; but, after a while,
the old smile came back to her eyes, as she playfully told her
mother she was richer than the emperor, for he could only see
the Madonna in the chapel, while she could see her smile from
every cloud, and look out of every stream.
But another grief came to the family at the cottage. Gottlieb
was out one day in the forest, when there came up a sudden
hurried along for several rods, and, reaching him in its path,
hurled him to the ground, and, falling upon one of his legs, crushed
it to fragments.
Fortunately, his two sons being at no great distance, his cries
speedily summoned them to his aid, and he was borne home. He
recovered his wonted health, indeed, but it was pitiful to see the
bold forester of other days plodding round with his staff and
his wooden leg.
It was but a few weeks after this when news came that the
emperor's new chapel had taken fire, and, together with the way-side
Madonna, been burned to the ground. With this news
came a proclamation that, for the best Madonna which should be
painted in his own dominions, the emperor had offered so large a
sum of money that it would make the successful artist independent
for life. It was now nearly spring, and the decision on
the merits of the different pictures was fixed for two years from
the following summer.
Christiana listened to all this, thoughtfully at first, and, by
and by, with a new light stealing into her deep eyes; and when
the evening shadows gathered round the quiet hearth, she came,
and, kneeling at her parents' feet, prayed that she might go forth
from the forest. She spoke of the prize that had been offered,
and told how she had heard of a school for artists, where every
year three poor persons were freely admitted.
“Let me go, dear parents,” she concluded; “I will study as no
one else can study, and I will win the prize.”
There was I know not what of inspiration in her uplifted face,
the clear, spiritual brow, and the earnest eyes. The husband
the great tears gathered; and at last she said, with a trembling
voice,
“Gottlieb, my husband, our Christmas-child has always been
a blessing to us, — when did we know her judgment to guide her
wrong? It is the voice of her destiny calling to her; we must
let her go forth.”
And her husband said, “Yes, Christiana, — God-given, — go
where thy heart tells thee; and may God be good to thee, as thou
hast been good to us, all the days of thy life!” and he crossed
his hands in blessing upon her bowed head.
Then the young girl rose up, and stole away in the twilight
to her own little room; and, as she glanced on her way at the
scantily-spread table in the corner, tears almost choked the
voice which whispered, “There will be one mouth less to
feed!”
It was a week before the exhibition of the prize-pictures;
and Christiana sat alone in her studio, giving the last touches
to a beautiful Madonna. Wearily had the girl-artist toiled
and studied, and many a time had her lamp grown dim, in the
gray light of morning, as she worked alone at the beloved picture.
She had completed it, at length, and she threw herself
upon her knees, with tears of thankfulness raining from her
eyes.
Another week, and a breathless crowd were awaiting the
imperial decision in the hall of exhibition. There were jewelled
countesses and sabred knights; and there, in the brilliant
light, hung the seventy prize-pictures. Many times had the
kindling before paintings, almost all of them masterpieces
of art.
At last he slowly paused, and, indicating with his sceptre the
chosen picture, he exclaimed,
“This alone is worthy to fill the niche in the new chapel; this
alone the exact counterpart of the lost Madonna. Let the artist
come forward!”
There was a moment's breathless silence; — then a faint rustling
at the other end of the hall, and down through the midst
came a white-robed figure. At first, many crossed themselves
and bowed their heads, as if they had seen an angel, and all
eyes turned upon her with a strange surprise. She was a
young girl, with a face as pale and fair as her snowy robe.
Her long, golden curls fell about her, as she tripped onward
like a spirit, and stood, at last, with bowed head, before the
emperor.
Tears dimmed even his proud eyes for a moment, as he gazed
on the humble, silent, graceful child before him, and then said,
with father-like pity, “God grant you may not have wrought
your life into this picture, my sweet child!” and then he placed a
crown of silver myrtle-leaves upon her forehead, and in her hand
the well-earned reward.
That night another form stood beside Christiana in her little
study, and the voice of Ernest Heine pleaded wildly with her
for her love.
“I never loved Maud,” he concluded; “I paid her beauty
homage, and I thought of you as a mere child. I have
watched you since then, Christie, many an hour, and a love for
kill me or drive me mad to see you another's. Christie, pure,
beautiful child-angel, will you answer me?”
Drawing her hand firmly, but very gently, from the clasp
which held it, the young girl answered:
“Gottlieb Schwiden and his wife saved me from death; —
they have brought me up and loved me as their own, and shall
I cause their child to suffer? No, no, Ernest Heine, look not
at me so beseechingly! I am no viper to sting the breast which
warmed me; — as God hears me, I will never be your wife. But
you have been much to me. You first taught me how to love
my art, and I will never pain you, if it would be pain to see me
another's. I will be my art's bride now, and by and by the bride
of death. No, no, Ernest, do not talk to me any more; go now,
— next time we meet, brother Ernest, I will be bridesmaid at
Maud's wedding.”
The young man saw it was hopeless to say more, and slowly
and sorrowfully he went out. Then, indeed, came for Christiana
an hour of most bitter agony, a trial than which death had
scarcely been more terrible. Kneeling there, with bowed head
and clasped hands, she could find no voice to pray; but the very
attitude seemed to carry consolation with it, and the triumphant
artist knelt there alone for hours in that humble room, wrestling
with the tide-waves of a crushing and most mighty sorrow.
She had put away from her, with her own hands, a cup of hope
beaded to the brim with bubbling drops of joy. She had sent
one forth in anguish who was dearer to her than life; and along
her own track had withered all the roses, and left nothing for
her clinging hands but thorns. But she had done right; — out
promised to those who fear Him, and by and by her soul grew
strong.
Two days after, she alighted from a travelling-carriage at a
little distance from the forest-cottage. She wished to gaze
unseen upon those she loved; and she stole softly in at the back
door. The first tones of Gottlieb's voice arrested her, they were
so strangely sad.
“It 's all over, wife,” he said; “we must go to-morrow out
from the forest-cottage, and with no longer a roof to cover us.
I cannot stay, except I pay five hundred thalers, — I, who could
not raise as many hunderts!”
“`I have been young, and now am old,'” said his wife, solemnly,
“`yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed
begging bread.'”
A moment, and Christiana was kneeling at their feet, and
pouring many times five hundred thalers into the mother's
lap!
Six weeks later, and there was a bridal at the cottage, for
Maud was wedded to her artist-lover; and no one noted that
the bridesmaid's cheeks were paler than the snow-drops in her
hair.
Many years later still, when title-deeds of the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg
came to Christiana, she learned the name of the proud and
beautiful lady, who, by an ill-starred marriage, had become her
mother, and afterwards her godmother.
But she sent the empty honors back, and staid in her own
home to cheer the old age of her foster-parents; and, when at
trembling fingers as they passed through the valley and shadow
of death; and, bending down to catch the last words faltering
on Gertrude's lips, she thanked God, for the dying woman
whispered, “Whoso receiveth one such little child in my name,
receiveth me!”
| This, that and the other | |