At intervals a drop of liquid fell from the vats, and the sound of its fall echoed long in the quiet workshop.
The noise from outside broke dully against the window and took Sandu’s thoughts back to other days. And all at once he began to carol to himself:
“And as you journey thither
There comes wafted many a mile,
From where the Holy Infant lies,
The scent of fair flowers,
The glow of bright torches,
The smoke of the incense,
The song of the angels.”
He sang softly, and the dead past of the years he had spent since he left the home where he was born seemed to unroll itself before him. And as he saw himself alone, and deprived of every kind of pleasure, a tear crept into his eye, and with his head resting upon his hand, he sat gazing into the fire. All the nine years that he had spent Christmas among strangers, he had envied the joy of others, and never once had he felt in his heart the peace of the season as he used to in the days when he was at home. And who would think of him, or who would give him any happiness at this holy festival?