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 not lose you for all the wealth of heaven, my little boy."

"Oh, do not say it in such a manner," exclaims his wife, pressing her hand against her heart in sudden alarm; "you make me so afraid."

"My pious little wife!" answers he; "how can these foolish shooting-stars frighten you? Now I leave you for my work, and in the mean time you may cherish your hopes about divine things. A mother does this all the better when she is alone."

With moistened eyes she turns towards him, whispering: "I wish both of us could do it."

"I am more easily contented than both of you," he returns, smiling upon her; "I shall not ask for heaven, but am contented with the earth, where I have you and the boy."

Kissing his two dear ones, he leaves them. A young man, with all the joy in life yet before him, he is so wise and self-reliant, so strong and good, too.

But mother sits alone with her little son. One shooting-star falls after another, and for every one of them she takes him more firmly in her arms.

Another evening: Christmas night.

The young mother again sits alone with her little boy, her only one, on her lap. It is sad to sit with such a treasure in your arms, while the darkness settles about you it is sad to watch the glowing cheeks and the eyes which sparkle, not from a