His heart was beating with joy, simply because it _did_ beat. But suddenly he saw with horror that his past life had been even as the terrible thunderstorm that had dealt destruction right and left in the beautiful forest. He thought of Lisbeth, his good and beautiful wife, whom he had murdered on account of his avarice, and he saw himself as an outcast of humanity. When he reached the little hill where the Glass-man dwelt he was weeping bitterly. The Glass man sat beneath the pine-tree and smoked a pipe, and he looked more cheerful than previously. “Why do you weep, Charcoal Peter?” he asked. “Did you not get your heart? Have you still a stone in your breast?” “Ah! sir!” sighed Peter, “when I had a heart of stone I never wept, my eyes were as dry as the land in July; but now my heart is breaking as I think of all I have done. My debtors I drove out to misery and want, and set my dogs upon the poor and sick, and you know alas! how my whip fell upon that snow-white brow!” “Peter, you have been a great sinner!” said the little man. “Money and idleness spoilt you; when your heart became as a stone you could feel neither joy, nor sorrow, neither remorse nor pity. But repentance can make amends and if I knew for certain that you were sorry for your past life I would still do something for you.” “I ask for nothing more,” answered Peter, and let his head sink mournfully upon his breast. “All is over for me, never again can I rejoice, and what can I do alone in the world? My mother will never forgive me for what I have done; even now, maybe, I have brought her to her grave, monster that I am. And Lisbeth, my wife! It were a kindness to strike me dead, Master Glass-man, so that my miserable life were at an end.” “Good,” replied the little man, “if you insist, well, I have my axe near at hand.” He took his pipe quietly from his mouth, tapped it and put it back again. Then he rose slowly and stepped behind the pine-tree. But Peter sat down upon the grass weeping, his life had become worthless to him, and patiently he awaited the stroke of death. Shortly afterwards he heard light footsteps behind him and thought, “He is coming now!” “Look round, Peter Munk!” cried the little man. Peter wiped the tears from his eyes and, looking round, saw--his mother, and Lisbeth, his wife, smiling at him. He sprang up joyfully, “Then you are not dead, Lisbeth? And you are here also, Mother, and have forgiven me?” “They pardon you,” said the little Glass-man, “because you are truly penitent, and everything shall be forgotten. Go home now to your father’s cottage and be a charcoal-burner as before; if you are honest and industrious you will learn to respect your work, and your neighbours will love and esteem you more than if you had ten tons of gold.” Thus spoke the little Glass-man, and then bade him farewell. The three happy people praised and blessed him and turned towards home.