At the very threshold he turned to say—"Your spinning wheel wants a new treadle, mother."
"You can make it, Hans."
"So I can. That will take no money. But you need feathers, and wool and meal, and——"
"There, there! That will do. Your silver cannot buy everything. Ah! Hans, if our stolen money would but come back on this bright Saint Nicholas' Eve, how glad we would be! Only last night I prayed to the good Saint——"
"Mother!" interrupted Hans in dismay.
"Why not, Hans! Shame on you to reproach me for that! I'm as true a protestant, in sooth, as any fine lady that walks into church, but it's no wrong to turn sometimes to the good Saint Nicholas. Tut! It's a likely story if one can't do that, without one's children flaring up at it—and he the boys' and girls' own saint—Hoot! mayhap the colt is a steadier horse than the mare?"
Hans knew his mother too well to offer a word in opposition, when her voice quickened and sharpened as it did now (it was often sharp and quick when she spoke of the missing money) so he said, gently:
"And what did you ask of good Saint Nicholas, mother?"
"Why, to never give the thieves a wink of sleep till they brought it back, to be sure, if he's power to do such things, or else to brighten our wits that we might find it ourselves. Not a sight have I had of it since the day before the dear father was hurt—as you well know, Hans."
"That I do, mother," he answered sadly, "though you have almost pulled down the cottage in searching."