again.  But the flames burst out through the window and over the roof; they saw it down below, and they all ran as fast as they could to help me; the poor old crone they believed would be burned; there was not one who did not come to help me.  I heard them come, and I heard, too, such a rustling in the air, and then a thundering as of heavy cannon-shots, for the spring-flood was loosening the ice, and it all broke up.  But the folk were all come off it to the trenches, where the sparks were flying about me; I had them all safe.  But I could not bear the cold and the fright, and that is how I have come up here.  Can the gates of heaven be opened to such a poor old creature as I?  I have no house now at the trenches; where can I go, if they refuse me here?”

Then the gates opened, and the Angel bade poor Margaret enter.  As she passed the threshold, she dropped a blade of straw—­straw from her bed—­that bed which she had set alight to save the people on the ice, and lo! it had changed into gold! dazzling gold! yet flexible withal, and twisting into various forms.

“Look, that was what yonder poor woman brought,” said the Angel.  “But what dost thou bring?  Truly, I know well that thou hast done nothing, not even made bricks.  It is a pity thou canst not go back again to fetch at least one brick—­not that it is good for anything when it is made, no, but because anything, the very least, done with a good will, is Something.  But thou mayst not go back, and I can do nothing for thee.”

Then poor Margaret pleaded for him thus:  “His brother gave me all the bricks and broken bits wherewith I built my poor little house—­that was a great kindness toward a poor old soul like me!  May not all those bits and fragments, put together, be reckoned as one brick for him?  It will be an act of mercy; he needs it, and this is the home of mercy.”

“To thy brother, whom thou didst despise,” said the Angel, “to him whose calling, in respect of worldly honor, was the lowest, shalt thou owe this mite of heavenly coin.  Thou shalt not be sent away; thou shalt have leave to stand here without, and think over thy manner of life down below.  But within thou canst not enter, until thou hast done something that is good—­Something!”

“I fancy I could have expressed that better,” thought the critic; but he did not say it aloud, and that was already—­Something!

THE JEWISH GIRL

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There was in the charity-school among the other children a little Jewish girl, so clever and good; the best, in fact, of them all; but one of the lessons she could not attend—­the one when religion was taught, for this was a Christian school.

Then she held her geography book before her to learn from it, or she did her sum; but the lesson was quickly learned, the sum was soon done; the book might be there open before her, but she did not read, she was listening; and the teacher soon noticed that she was attending more intently, even, than any of the rest.