Sweet herald of good-will,
With holy songs of glory,
Brings holy gladness still."

Summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves
lay thick in the Forest.

For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its
influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them
low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of
snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It
weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the
piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel
in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden
wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased,
though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was
quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the
dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still the
stove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a
weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time
uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove.

"Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat
there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it.
And your violin--why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and
even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this
morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all
left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'"

Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of
shame, colouring her cheeks.

"O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill,
only I keep thinking and wondering and--There! I know I'm wrong, only,
Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are
alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at
Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long
time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and
Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive
me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm
and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only--" And the
poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly.

Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who
had been the