the flaxen hair curling over the dimpled arm, and she said:

"That is thy thanks--just that the little one is happy. The dear
Heavenly Father cares more, I think, for such thanks than for any other;
just to see the flowers grow, just to hear the birds sing to their
nestlings, just to see His creatures good and happy, because of His
gifts. Those are about the best thanks for Him and for us."

But Gottlieb looked up inquiringly.

"Yet He likes us to say 'Thank you,' too? Did you not say all the Church
services, all the beautiful cathedral itself, is just the people's
'Thank you' to God? Are we not going to church just to say 'Thank you,'
to-day?"

"Yes, darling," she said. "But the 'thank you' we _mean_ to say is worth
little unless it is just the blossom and fragrance of the love and
content always in the heart. God cares infinitely for our loving Him,
and loves us to thank Him if we do. He does not care at all for the
thanks without the love, or without the content."

And as she spoke these words, Mother Magdalis was preaching a little
sermon to herself also, which made her eyes moisten and shine.

So she took courage, and contrived to persuade the children and herself
that the bread-and-water breakfast that Christmas Eve morning had
something quite festive about it.

And when they had finished with a grace which Gottlieb sang, and
Lenichen lisped after him, she told him to take the little sister on his
knee and sing through his songs and hymns, while she arrayed herself in
the few remnants of holiday dress left her.

And as she cleaned and arranged the tiny room, her heart was lighter
than it had been for a long time.

"I ought to be happy," she said to herself, "with music enough in my
little nest to fill a church."

When Gottlieb had finished his songs, and was beginning them over again,
there was a knock at the door, and the face of old Hans, the dwarf,
appeared at the door, as he half opened it.

"A good Christmas to thee and thy babes, Mother Magdalis! Thy son is
born indeed with a golden spoon in his mouth," croaked old Hans in his
hoarse, guttural voice.

The words grated on Magdalis. Crooked Hans' jokes were apt to be as
crooked as his temper and his poor limbs, and to give much
dissatisfaction, hitting on just the sore points no one wanted to be
touched.

She felt tempted to answer sharply, but the sweet Christmas music had
got into her heart, and she only said, with tears starting to her eyes: