Soon the little maid, while braiding her own golden tresses, fairly danced around her mother in an ecstasy of admiration. “Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother, how pretty you are! Look, Hans! Isn’t it just like a picture?” “Just like a picture,” assented Hans cheerfully. “JUST like a picture--only I don’t like those stocking things on the hands.” “Not like the mitts, brother Hans! Why, they’re very important. See, they cover up all the red. Oh, Mother, how white your arm is where the mitt leaves off, whiter than mine, oh, ever so much whiter. I declare, Mother, the bodice is tight for you. You’re growing! You’re surely growing!” Dame Brinker laughed. “This was made long ago, lovey, when I wasn’t much thicker about the waist than a churn dasher. And how do you like the cap?” she asked, turning her head from side to side. “Oh, EVER so much, Mother. It’s b-e-a-u-tiful! See, the father is looking!” Was the father looking? Alas! only with a dull stare. His vrouw turned toward him with a start, something like a blush rising to her cheeks, a questioning sparkle in her eye. The bright look died away in an instant. “No, no.” She sighed. “He sees nothing. Come, Hans”--and the smile crept faintly back again--“don’t stand gaping at me all day, and the new skates waiting for you at Amsterdam.” “Ah, Mother,” he answered, “you need so many things. Why should I buy skates?” “Nonsense, child. The money was given to you on purpose, or the work was--it’s all the same thing. Go while the sun is high.” “Yes, and hurry back, Hans!” laughed Gretel. “We’ll race on the canal tonight, if the mother lets us.” At the very threshold he turned to say, “Your spinning wheel wants a new treadle, Mother.” “You can make it, Hans.” “So I can. That will take no money. But you need feathers and wool and meal, and--” “There, there! That will do. Your silver cannot buy everything. Ah! Hans, if our stolen money would but come back on this bright Saint Nicholas’s Eve, how glad we would be! Only last night I prayed to the good saint--” “Mother!” interrupted Hans in dismay. “Why not, Hans? Shame on you to reproach me for that! I’m as true a Protestant, in sooth, as any fine lady that walks into church, but it’s no wrong to turn sometimes to the good Saint Nicholas. Tut! It’s a likely story if one can’t do that, without one’s children flaring up at it--and he the boys’ and girls’ own saint. Hoot! Mayhap the colt is a steadier horse than the mare?” Hans knew his mother too well to offer a word in opposition when her voice quickened and sharpened as it did now (it was often sharp and quick when she spoke of the missing money), so he said gently, “And what did you ask of good Saint Nicholas, Mother?”