throwing on a fresh fagot. "I suppose the Christ-child has a great, great deal to do."
"Or perhaps he has forgotten all about us," added Max, despondingly.
But at that moment, as if to contradict his words, a footstep sounded at the door. The latch was raised and loudly rattled. "Hallo!" cried a voice. "Where are you all? Grandfather, children,—show a light, somebody!" And then the door opened, and plump into the middle of the tree came a young man, head foremost, as if he had dropped from the clouds.
For a moment he sat there, the green boughs framing in his ruddy face and bright yellow hair. Then he picked himself up, and exclaimed, "Well, there's a welcome home! I didn't expect to be made into a Christmas Angel so soon.—Max!" (wonderingly). "Is it Max? Thekla!—can it be little Thekla? Why don't you speak? Don't you know me? Have you forgotten Fritz?"
"Fritz!" cried the little ones. "Not our Fritz who went away so long ago?"
