"I made it in clay, and then took the shape in sand, and poured the moulten iron into it.”

"Clever boy! clever boy!" cried the blacksmith, raising his hands and eyes in astonishment; then, recollecting himself, he said in a loud whisper to his wife, “Quintin will be a genius some day-a wonderful man; but we must not tell him so, lest it should make him vain."

The mother shook her head, smiling all the while; and little Quintin, who doubtless heard every word, grew red and pale by turns as he stood by his father's knee, proud and happy at the admiration his work excited.

"I'll tell you what, my boy," cried Matsys, "you shall come to the forge with me to-morrow; 'like father, like son.' I had no idea you had watched me to such good purpose. Let me see; how old are you? I forget exactly."

"Quintin will be ten years old at Christmas," said Gretchen; adding, with moistened eyes, "You know, Hans, he was born just two years after Lisa-poor little Lisa-and she would have been twelve now."

The father looked grave for a few moments, but soon recovered his cheerfulness when the eager upturned face of his pet Quintin met his. This one darling atoned for all his departed children; he had soon become reconciled to their loss, like most fathers; it is only in mothers' hearts that the memory of babes vanished to Heaven lingers until death.

Matsys twisted his coarse brown fingers in Quintin's fair curls, and said thoughtfully, Well, ten years old is not too soon to begin; I was a year younger myself when my father made me work; to be sure I was stronger than Quintin, and was the eldest of a dozen boys and girls. But then Quintin shall do no hard work, and it will keep him out of mischief, and make him learn diligence betimes-always a good thing for a labouring lad. Not but what I shall have some gold florins to put by for him in time; but bad things happen sometimes, God only knows! However," continued the blacksmith, ending his long soliloquy, and speaking louder, "if you like, Quintin, to-morrow you shall begin to learn how to be as good a blacksmith as your father."

"And may I make plenty of bracelets like these?" inquired the boy.

His father laughed merrily. "You would take a long time to get rich if you never did anything but these little fanciful things. You must learn how to forge tools, and horse-shoes, and nails; but," continued he, noticing that the boy's countenance fell at this information, "don't be unhappy; you shall make bracelets now and then if you like, and rings too, if you are clever enough. And now, go and ask your mother what she says to this plan."

"I am quite willing, Hans," said his wife; "you know best;

but I shall often be very lonely without the child. However, you must send him over to see me sometimes in the day."

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Very well, wife; and now, all being settled, put out the fire, and let us go to rest, for it is long after sunset, and little Quintin will soon be half asleep here on my lap."

Gretchen kissed her little son, heard him repeat his prayers, then undressed him, and laid him in his straw bed. In another hour the quiet of night was over the cottage, and the little household it contained had all sunk into that deep slumber which is the sweet reward of labour.

II.

DEATH IN THE COTTAGE.

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth!" is a wise saying, and of mournful import. The holy man who wrote it knew its truth, and many a fearful heart, shrinking from the future, as well as many a one stricken to the earth when most confident of bliss, have acknowledged the same. They are words never written or spoken without an indefinable dread; for no one living is so happy, or so confident in his happiness, that he has nothing to fear.

Christmas drew nigh merrily. In the blacksmith's little family there was nothing but hopeful anticipation. The clear biting frost of a Dutch winter had set in, and all was gaiety; for this is an important adjunct of mirth in a country where all festivities are carried on by means of the frozen waters. Gretchen had bought her furs and her gay ribbons; all the Christmas gifts were ready, and the Christmas dinner provided. The blacksmith's wife had finished all her preparations, had brought out the great silver cup, a family heir-loom, the only vestige of riches, and had set out, ready for the morrow, one or two bottles of Rhenish wine, as a crowning treat for the Christmas festivities. Lastly, she brought out the eight carved wooden cups which had been added at the birth of each child, each bearing the initial letter of their names. It was the fancy of an old relative, a clever workman, who had thus enriched the stores of the blacksmith. Gretchen brought them out one by one, dusted them as carefully as if they were to be used, and as she did so, let fall a few quiet tears on each memorial of her little ones. Mechanically she arranged them in order, and then sighing deeply, put them all aside, leaving only Quintin's. She then dried her eyes with her apron, glanced round the cottage to see that all was right, and wrapping her warm mantle over her head, went outside the door to watch for her husband and child, for the loneliness of the cottage was too much for her.

It was a fine day for winter: there was no sunshine, but the white snow made everything light and cheerful. The frosty

weather caused the bells of the cathedral to sound louder and nearer; their merry peal rung out as if to drive away all care and melancholy thoughts; and while Gretchen listened to them, the mists of despondency which had gathered over her soul were, unconsciously to herself, swept away by their influence. The Dutch wife had little or no sentiment in her composition, yet she could not help giving way at this moment to fancies which mother-love alone could have roused in her placid mind. She thought no longer of the children lost on earth, but of the angels gained to Heaven.

Gretchen's reflections then turned towards those left to herher husband and Quintin. She thought of Hans, his diligence and industry, and how he had gone through all the struggles of their younger days, until comparative riches, the fruit of his labour, were beginning to flow in upon them. Their cottage was as small as ever, to be sure, but still it boasted many little comforts which it had not when they first began life; and all was through Hans-good, steady Hans! Gretchen never thought how much her own careful economy had contributed to keep safe, and spend rightly, her husband's earnings. Then she looked forward to the future, calculated how long it would be before Hans might leave off work, and Quintin succeed him in the forge. And the mother then pictured Quintin grown to manhood, and smiled as she thought of his taking a wife, and making Hans and herself grow young again on playing with a troop of grandchildren.

The blacksmith's wife was in the midst of these reflections and anticipations when the sound of her husband's forge ceased. It was earlier than usual; but Gretchen was not surprised, as it was holiday time, and she thought that Matsys had got through his work quicker than ordinary, that he might be at home on Christmas eve. So she went into the cottage to await his return, and warm her chilled hands at the fire, which she took care to heap up in readiness for the cold and weary labourers, for Quintin was now indefatigable at his father's trade. She waited longer than usual, but neither came; the short twilight had passed away, and it was nearly dark. Still she feared nothing, but sat quietly by the fire.

At last the latched door was burst open, and little Quintin rushed in. He hid his pale face on his mother's bosom, sobbing bitterly.

"What is the matter? Who has vexed my little Quintin ?” said the mother, soothing him.

"No one, mother; no one!" cried the child anew; "but they told me not to tell you. Father—”

"Where is your father? Is he coming home?"

"Yes, he is coming home-they are bringing him; but he will not speak, and he looks like Sister Lisa. That is what frightened me."

At this moment some neighbours entered: they were carrying

Hans. His wife rushed to him, and flung her arms round him with wild exclamations; but he made no answer, and she could not see him clearly for the darkness. They drew Gretchen away, and laid him on the bed. A bright blaze sprung up in the fire, and showed to the horror-stricken wife the face of the dead.

Death, sudden and fearful death, had come upon the strong man in the flower of his vigour and hope. The blacksmith had been engaged on his usual labours, when the horse that he was shoeing gave him a violent kick on the forehead: he sank on the ground, and rose up no more a living man.

III.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

It was a mournful Christmas in the home of the widow and the fatherless. Until the day of the funeral, Gretchen, passive in her affliction, sat by the body of her husband, holding in her arms her sole treasure, her only child. She seemed calm, almost passionless; but her countenance, before so peaceful, was seamed with wrinkles that might have been the work of years, and her hair had grown gray in a single night. She kept her eyes fixed upon the corner where the dim outline of a human form was seen through the white covering, never moving them except to follow, with intense anxiety, every motion of little Quintin. To the child the scene was not new; he had seen death before, and had not feared to behold, and even to touch, the white marble figures of his brothers and sisters who had died since his infancy; but now he felt a strange awe, which kept him away from his father.

Those to whose hearths death comes slowly, preceded by long sickness, pain, and the anguish of suspense, can little imagine what it is when the work of the destroyer is done in a moment; when one hour makes the home desolate, the place vacant, the heart full of despair. And when, added to the deep sorrow within, comes the fear for the future without, the worldly thoughts and worldly cares that will intrude even in the bitterest and most sacred grief, when that loss brings inevitably with it the evils of poverty-then how doubly intense is the sense of anguish!

Thus, when the remains of poor Hans Matsys had been laid beside those of his children, and the widow returned to her desolate cottage, it was no wonder than her strength and courage failed her. She burst into a flood of passionate grief, to which her quiet and subdued character had hitherto been a stranger, rocking herself to and fro in her chair, unconscious, or else heedless, of Quintin's attempts to console her.

"My child! my child! we have no hope. God has forsaken us!" she cried at last.

"You had not used to say that, mother, when Lisa died. You told me to be good, and then God would never forsake me."

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"I did, I did," cried the stricken woman; 'but it is different now! Oh, Hans, Hans! why did you go away and leave me alone, all alone!"

"Not quite alone, mother," said Quintin, raising himself, and standing upright before her with a serious firmness foreign to his years; 66 you have me— e-Quintin. I will take care of you." And he stretched out his arms to his mother, his face beaming with intense affection, and his eyes glowing with thoughts and resolves which even she could not fathom. However, there was something in the child's countenance which inspired her with hope she felt that Quintin would one day or other be her stay and comfort.

"But," said she, after she and her son had sealed their mutual love and confidence in a long embrace, "how are we to live? Your poor father worked too hard to save money, except for the last year; and how are we to find food, now that he is no longer here to work for us? You are too young, my poor Quintin, to keep on the forge; it must go into other hands. There is no hope for us: we must starve!"

"We shall not starve!" cried the boy, his slight form dilating with the earnestness of his manner as he drew himself up to his full height. "Mother, we shall not starve! I shall be a man soon; but, until then, we must be content with little. I can work well even now; whoever takes the forge will have me to help, I know. You can spin, mother, until I grow stronger and older, so as to be able to get money enough. You told me once, when I was trying to do something difficult, 'When there is a will, there is a way. Now, mother, I have a will, a courageous one; and never fear but I shall make a way."

New comfort dawned on the widow's heart; she was no longer hopeless as before. The boy who, a few days before, had clung to her knees in childlike helplessness, looking to her for direction, advice, and assistance, now seemed to give her the counsel and strength of which she stood in such sore need. It is often so with those who are afterwards to be great among their fellowmen; in a few days, by some incident or sudden blow of misfortune, they seem to step at once from childhood to the threshold of premature manhood. With Quintin this change was not surprising; because his thoughts had ever been beyond his years, partly from the superiority of his mind even in childhood, and partly because he had lived entirely with his parents, and from various causes had never associated with those of his own age. These circumstances had given a maturity to his judgment and a strength to his feelings which made him, in the foregoing conversation with his mother, assume that unwonted energy and resolution which was afterwards the prominent feature of his character, and which even then was sufficient to make the forlorn