Little Joseph was standing apart, as if in disgrace, when his grandfather, contrary to his usual custom, went out alone. Usually he took Joseph with him; and the boy supplied his furnace with chips, and brought him rough pieces of wood for his work, taking away those that were finished and arranging them in good order. His mother took the boy with her into the kitchen, and there she asked him, "Joseph, what ails you to-day? Why did you exclaim so uncivilly, 'Woe's me, Leegart!'? she is so kind to you, and your godmother besides, and is making you a pretty new jacket." Not a word from Joseph. A child can scarcely remember what he said a few minutes previously, and can never recall the train of his ideas, and consequently cannot explain them. The words of children are like the songs of birds, devoid of rhythm, and yet emanating from a hidden life within. After a pause, Joseph began of his own accord to say, "Mother, is not my father to be here to-day? You told me so." "Yes, he will be here. He is sure to come, I think," answered Martina, with a deep sigh. Now she understood why Joseph had been so disappointed on seeing Leegart. No doubt, when she threw open the door, Joseph expected to see his father; so he had called out, "Woe's me, Leegart!" simply because it was another person, and not his father. Joseph went on talking, and saying he knew his father would take him on his horse, and probably give him one of his own. Martina anxiously endeavoured to divert the child's thoughts from his father, but she could not succeed. In the depression of her heart, she had too often made Adam a topic of conversation, and had frequently spoken her inmost thoughts to the boy, whose dawning intellect and thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father. He had formed the most singular ideas about him, and was perpetually asking why his grandmother persisted in plaguing his father, and preventing his coming home to them. "Which way will my father come to-day?" asked Joseph. "I don't know." "Yes, you do know, and you must tell me," said little Joseph, beginning to whimper; and his mother, drawing him closer to her, said, "Hush, hush! no one must overhear us. If you are quite good and quiet, I will tell you presently." The boy checked his sobs, and his mother began to tell him what pretty presents he was to get at Christmas, and asked him if there was anything he particularly wished for. The boy cared for nothing but a horse: people had told him that his father had fourteen horses in his stable. All attempts to distract his attention were vain; his thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father; and he repeated, "Tell me, which way will he come to day?" The mother said in a subdued tone, "You must not tell a living creature one syllable about your father coming here to-day. Give me your hand on it; not one word to any human being."