, and overcome by an irresistible
impulse, the count pressed the Fairy Ernestine to his heart, while she,
holding him by the hand, drew him into the magic mazes of the dance. The
mysterious music floated through the room, and the rest of that Fairy
company circled and whirled around the Fairy Queen and Count Otto, and
then gradually dissolved into a mist of many colors, leaving the count
and his beautiful guest alone.

Then the young man, forgetting all his former coldness toward the
maidens of the country round about, fell on his knees before the Fairy
and besought her to become his bride. At last she consented on the
condition that he should never speak the word "death" in her presence.

The next day the wedding of Count Otto and Ernestine, Queen of the
Fairies, was celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, and the two
continued to live happily for many years.

Now it happened on a time, that the count and his Fairy wife were
to hunt in the forest around the castle. The horses were saddled and
bridled, and standing at the door, the company waited, and the count
paced the hall in great impatience; but still the Fairy Ernestine
tarried long in her chamber. At length she appeared at the door of the
hall, and the count addressed her in anger.

"You have kept us waiting so long," he cried, "that you would make a
good messenger to send for Death!"

Scarcely had he spoken the forbidden and fatal word, when the Fairy,
uttering a wild cry, vanished from his sight. In vain Count Otto,
overwhelmed with grief and remorse, searched the castle and the Fairy
Well, no trace could he find of his beautiful, lost wife but the imprint
of her delicate hand set in the stone arch above the castle gate.

Years passed by, and the Fairy Ernestine did not return. The count
continued to grieve. Every Christmas Eve he set up a lighted tree in
the room where he had first met the Fairy, hoping in vain that she would
return to him.

Time passed and the count died. The castle fell into ruins. But to this
day may be seen above the massive gate, deeply sunken in the stone arch,
the impress of a small and delicate hand.

And such, say the good folk of Strasburg, was the origin of the
Christmas Tree.

THE THREE PURSES

A LEGEND

BY WILLIAM S. WALSH (ADAPTED)

When Saint Nicholas was Bishop of Myra, there were among his people
three beautiful maidens, daughters of a nobleman. Their father was so
poor that he could not afford to gi