“Late into the night did they all sit over the fire, while Fritz told the story of his seven long years of absence.”
“It is getting late,” said Thekla, at last, 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?”
“The very same bad shilling come again,” laughed the big brother, catching Thekla in his arms and almost squeezing her to death with a hug. “But why do you look so astonished? Didn’t Grandfather get my letter? And where is the Grandfather?” beginning to collect himself. But then he caught the look on Max’s face, and saying “Ah!” he suddenly turned very pale, and releasing Thekla sat down in the nearest chair.
“When?” he asked at length, raising his face from the hands with which he had hidden it.
“A month ago,” said Max; but Thekla, putting her arm round on the new brother’s arm, added softly, in the very words of December, “Don’t be so sorry, dear Fritz. He has gone where he is young again.”
Late into the night did they all sit over the fire, while Fritz told the story of his seven long years of absence. It seemed to the children very exciting; for Fritz had twice been shipwrecked, had seen a buffalo, and only just escaped being killed by an Indian! He had been very poor too, and suffered such hardships that he could not bear to write home the tidings of his ill-luck. But now things were better. Out on the Western frontier of the United States (here Max and Thekla smiled at each other and thought of “Chusey”) he had found employment and kind friends, and managed to save from his wages enough to buy a little farm. He told of the oaks, the noble rivers, the plentiful food and rich soil, the splendid colors of the autumn forest.