It was Louis’ first Christmas, so far as his own consciousness was concerned. His mother had indeed set out his little socks for the Christ-child to fill, when he was but six months old, and had not yet put on shoes; but Louis certainly remembered nothing of that. And since Dora’s death Christmas had been a sad day to Karl Metzerott; a day which he spent as quietly as possible, avoiding merrymaking, and keeping Louis to himself, quite out of hearing of any mention of the feast or its occasion. But, however feasible this plan of operations might have hitherto proved, at five and a half, Louis was not to be so disposed of. “Papa,” he said, fetching his little stool with an air that meant business, and seating himself so as to gaze into his father’s face, with large, serious eyes, “papa, what is Christmas?” “Who told you anything about it?” asked the man, a little uneasily, seeing before him the dilemma of Christmas gayeties on the one hand, or disappointment to Louis on the other; both of which he felt equally unwilling to accept. “It was Herr Martin,” said Louis. “He said you were a free-thinker, who would let your boy have no Christmas.” “Your mother was buried on Christmas Day, Louis, and I do not care, therefore, to laugh and be merry on that day. But Jeweller Martin may mind his own business,” he added angrily. “Then do people laugh and be merry on Christmas? What _is_ Christmas, papa?” “A bit of nonsense, Louis, that you and I are too wise for. Come, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s only an old fairy tale, anyway, and you like fairy tales.” “_Ja, wohl!_” said the child, with brightening eyes. “I like them so much.” “Well, they say that once upon a time the world was very wicked, and the Christ-child came to save it. He was born on Christmas, and, when he grew up, preached to the people, and told them to repent and be good; but, instead of that, the rich men of those days took him and killed him. That part of the story is true, Louis; but the foolish part is this. Herr Martin’s little boy, and George, and all the children about here, believe that the Christ-child is still alive in some place they call heaven; and that he comes every Christmas Eve, and fills their shoes with candy and toys, and such stuff.” “Oh!” Louis gave a long sigh. “And he don’t, really?” he asked wistfully. “Really? No. How could he? The fathers and mothers fill the shoes, and then lie about it to the children.” He paused for a moment, as the vision rose in his heart of those two little white socks, and his wife’s eyes, as she looked up at him, smiling, on her knees beside them, to complain that they were so small that _nothing_ would go in. “I don’t say but it’s a pretty story,” he added hastily, “but I’ve never told you a lie yet, Louis.” “I—I—wish,” said the boy, “I wish it wasn’t a lie, papa.”