This was the substance of the discourse which the pastor held with the little wood-gatherer, in a way which children could understand.
Meanwhile, to the no small disappointment of the latter, they had reached the town. The pastor made the girl show him the dwelling of her parents, and, after again pressing her not to forget what she had heard, shook hands with her, and, with a hearty "Good night, my dear," took his departure. The girl returned the greeting from the bottom of her heart, thanked him for his words, and went on her way with the bundle of sticks. She had never gone there so light, so free, so happy as at this hour.
When she came home, her father was sitting behind the empty table, gloomy and silent, with his head resting on both hands. The mother was lying in her sick-bed, with immeasurable sorrow imprinted on every feature.
"What have you brought?" shouted the father, with a rigid face, as she entered.
"This wood, father," replied Mary; "and," added she, her countenance lighted up with joy, "a dear, dear friend, who has everything in abundance."
"A friend!" muttered the father; "what sort of friend is it, Mary?"
"One so powerful and rich, that it is an easy thing for him, dear mother, to restore you to health with a word, and no less quickly to bring you work, dear father, and all that we need."
"And this friend may be?"
"He is called Jesus, and"----
She would have said more, but scarcely had she pronounced the name Jesus than her father, with wild blasphemy and cursing, commanded instant silence, and threatened her with blows should she ever again think of coming to him with such fooleries and pronouncing that name.