"Next day and always," said the mother, looking off down the yellow road. Hansei cried: "Let me go too; let me go!" "Hush, no; it is dark where I go." "Is there no sun at the other side of the hill?" "Yes, yes; but we who make lace sit in darkness." Hansei asked: "Why must there be lace?" The mother stared into the dusk. "Because," she said slowly, "there are princesses and great ladies down there who must be beautiful." "What is beautiful?" "I don't know." Always through the dusky summer evenings they sat together on the doorstep, the mother with her bent head resting on her hand, and Hansei staring up at the great sky and clouds and stars above him. Sometimes the mother told strange stories, but oftener they sat silent. When winter came it seemed to Hansei that half of all the joy and light and life went out of the world. There were no birds nor bugs nor bees left; the flowers were gone, and the days were short and gray. It was cold, and he could only stay in the dim little house, playing with small sticks and stones, or tracing the frostwork on the one little window. Frost was like lace, his mother had told him. Sometimes, too, he would try to sing as the woman had sung who passed that summer time. One evening in the middle of winter Hansei and his mother started out to a bit of woods skirting the other side of the yellow road. Hansei sang as they went; it was half what the woman had sung and half like nothing that was ever heard. Sometimes this tune made his mother smile a little, but oftener she did not hear it. As they crossed the yellow road his mother stopped and looked, as she always did. "Hark!" she said, hushing the singing with her hand. Hansei stood still and listened. Yes, yes, they were coming--"the others." It sounded again as it had the day the men had ridden by, only more--more; and they were coming nearer. There were voices and the beat of footsteps, and sometimes Hansei heard a strange sound that might be singing or wind moaning. Hansei said: "I am so afraid." But his mother did not hear him. He hid his face in her gown and waited. They were coming on and on; and they were saying something together,--strange words that Hansei had never heard. Nearer and nearer! He felt them passing close where he and his mother stood; he raised his head and looked. He saw a long dark line of men, some riding and some walking. Their heads were bent, and they said the strange words together. Sometimes there was a burst like song, then the words again. There was one torch. Slowly they made their way down the yellow road. Hansei and his mother watched them as they went. He whispered, "Where are they going?" "Down there," said the mother softly. "It is the Christ-child's night." "Why do they go?" "To pray." "What will they ask?" "Light! light!" "Can all go?" "Yes, all." "Let us go, Mother; let us go! There is a voice down there that calls me often."