Soon the Monks came into the chapel to practise singing some new Christmas carols. There sat the near-sighted Monk, holding the big doll in his arms.
“Behold a miracle,” he said, holding up the doll. “Thou wilt remember that there was one doll planted which did not come up. Behold, in her place I have found this doll on crutches, which is—alive!”
“It is indeed a miracle,” said the Monk who was a doctor. He took the child in his arms and looked at the twisted ankle. “I think I can cure this lameness,” he said.
“Take her, then,” said the abbot, “and we will sing our Christmas carols joyously in her honor.”
Peter, of course, heard the Monks talking about the miracle, and he knew what it meant. He was very unhappy to think that he was deceiving them. At the same time he did not dare to tell them for fear the doctor would not try to cure his sister.
He worked hard picking the Christmas presents, and getting them ready for Santa Claus.
On Christmas Eve he was called into the chapel. The walls were covered with evergreen, and Christmas candles shone everywhere. There were Christmas wreaths in all the windows, and the Monks were singing a Christmas carol.
On a chair covered with green branches sat Peter’s little sister, dressed in white, with a wreath of holly berries on her head.
When the carol was ended, the Monks formed in a line with the abbot at the head. Each one had his hands full of the most beautiful Christmas presents. The abbot held a wax doll, the biggest and prettiest that grew in the garden.
When he held it out to the little girl, she drew back, and said in her sweet little voice, “Please, I’m not a miracle; I’m only Peter’s little sister.”