In one cottage only this little festive scene was not enacted. Hanserl’s mother, who for some time back had been in declining health, was unable to contribute, as she was wont, to their support. Too proud to confess her poverty in the village, she contrived to keep up all the externals of their condition as before. She and her son were seen on Sunday as well dressed as ever; perhaps, if any thing, a more than ordinary attention in this respect could be detected. Her offering to the curate rather exceeded than fell short of its customary amount, These were, however, costly little sacrifices to pride; for these, their meal was made scantier and poorer; for these, the hours of the wintry night were made longer and drearier, as, to save the cost of candle-light, they sat in darkness beside the stove; a hundred little privations, such as only poverty knows or can sympathise with, fell to their lot; all, borne with fortitude and patience, but in their slow process chilling and freezing up the hope from which these virtues spring. “Hanserl, my love,” said the poor widow, and her eyes swam and her tongue faltered as she spoke, “thou hast had none of the pleasures of this joyous day. Take these twelve kreutzers and buy thyself something in the Dorf. There be many pretty things cost not more than twelve kreutzers.” Hanserl made no answer; his thoughts were wandering far away. Heaven knows whether they had strayed back to the bold days of Wallenstein, or the siege of Prague, or were now, with the stormy cataract of the Danube--at the iron gate, as it is called, the desperate scene of many a bloody meeting between Turks and Austrians. “Hans, love, dost hear me? I say, thou canst buy a bow with arrows; thou hast long been wishing for one. But bring no more books of battles, child,” added she, more feelingly; “strife and war have cost us both dearly. If thy father had not served the Kaiser, he would not have fallen at Elchingen.” “I know it well,” said the boy, his features flashing as he spoke. “He would not have stood beside the ammunition-waggons when the French dragoons bore down, and with a loud voice called out, ‘Halt! these tumbrels are powder; another step and I’ll explode the train!’ How they reined up and fled! My father saved the train; didn’t he, mother?” “He did,” sobbed the widow; “and fell under the wall of the citadel as the last waggon entered the gate.’’ “God preserve Franz the Emperor!” said the boy, with a wild enthusiasm; “he has given many a brave soldier a glorious grave. But for this,” here he struck his shrunken limb violently with his hand, “I, too, had been able to serve him. But for this--” a passion of sorrow, that found vent in tears, checked his words, and he buried his head in his hands and sobbed hysterically.