Her husband, who had been leaning idly against the window frame, looking into the street,—for jewelry did not particularly interest Dr. Richards,—now came and stood at her elbow. He said nothing, but his mere presence and the consciousness of his sympathy strengthened her nobler self, so that in a little while she turned to Louis again, with a smile that was sad but very sweet. “Attend to the children, Mr. Martin,” she said; “they don’t like to wait. Are you buying a thimble for your mother, my little man?” “My mother’s dead,” said Louis, “because we are poor, and the millionnaires wont ’vide. This thimble is for George’s mother.” “You don’t remember the boy, Alice,” said Dr. Richards; “indeed I don’t know that you ever saw him; he is Dora Metzerott’s child.” “He is very like her,” said Alice slowly. Her mind went back to the days when she and Dora had been “evened” to one another as equally headstrong in marrying for love and disregarding orthodoxy. She would be proud and happy to be “evened” to Dora now, in another respect. Meanwhile Herr Martin had produced a case of thimbles, by whose silvery brightness the boys were so impressed that they began to doubt whether their quarter would buy so very many of them after all. “But how much money have you got?” asked the jeweller. “A real quarter,” answered Louis proudly. “I found it this morning.” “Oh! found it, did you? Then how do you know but it belongs to me?” “You’re in fun,” said the child gravely; “my papa said it might belong to me.” “Oh! well, if your papa said so! But doesn’t any of it belong to George?” “Yes,” said Louis, “me and George always ’vides everyfing.” “That’s just about where it is,” said the jeweller, with a glance at his older customers, who were listening attentively, “me and George ’vides; George and me _don’t_ always. But, I say, young uns, you don’t suppose I can sell you a thimble for twenty-five cents, do you?” Louis’ lip quivered. “Can’t you?” he said. “It is for George’s mother; and Frau Tundt said there was a day when you’d give a thousand thimbles to call her Anna Martin.” “Did Frau Tundt say that?” cried the jeweller, crossing his arms on the counter and laughing heartily. “Well, she’s right; so I would, so I would! Ah! she was a fine girl, and no mistake.” Still laughing, he selected a very pretty thimble, rapidly enclosed it in a pink-cottoned box, wrapped that again in white paper, and gave it to Louis. “There,” he said, “give that to Frau Anna with a Christmas greeting from her old sweetheart. No, I don’t want your quarter. Keep it to buy seed-cakes.” “Thank you, sir,” said Louis. “‘A Christmas greeting from her old sweetheart!’ I won’t forget. But what is Christmas?” he added. “Ach! that father of yours, with his free-thinking! Can you believe it, Mrs. Richards! a man who won’t let his boy have a Christmas,” cried Herr Martin indignantly.