But the tradesman’s daughter stuck her head into the shop not once nor twice.  She looked and smiled at him in shy admiration.  Never had he remarked before what taking ways were hers, or noticed how bonnie and bright the lassie was, and how graceful and supple she looked as she stood in the doorway.  And ever since the tradesman’s daughter had looked so strangely at him, he had no thought for any one but her.  He was always thinking what a way she had of holding her head, and how slim she looked when she walked about, and what quick and lively blue eyes she had, just like merry twinkling stars.

He would lay awake o’ nights, and reflect upon his grievous abominable sin in lowering himself to the level of an uncanny monster, and right glad was he that he had cast the ring away.

But on Christmas Eve, when the shop was shut and the house folks and servants were making ready for the festival in kitchen and parlour, the shopkeeper took him aside into his counting-house.  If he liked his daughter, said he, there was no impediment that he could see.  Let him take heart and woo her, for it hadn’t escaped him how she was moping about all love-sick on his account.  He himself, said the shopkeeper, was old, and would like to retire from business.

The good-looking shopman did not wait to be asked twice.  He wooed straightway, and, before the Christmas cheer was on the table, he got yes for an answer.

Then years and years passed over them, and they thrived and prospered in house and home.

They had pretty and clever children.  He rejoiced in his wife; nothing was good enough for her, and honour and ease were her portion, both at home and abroad.

But in the seventh year, when it was drawing towards Yule-tide, such a strange restlessness came over him.  He wandered about all by himself, and could find peace nowhere.

His wife fretted and sorrowed over it.  She knew not what it could be, and it seemed to her that he oddly avoided her.  He would wander for hours together about the dark packhouse loft, among coffers and casks and barrels and sacks, and it was as though he didn’t like folks to come thither when he was there.

Now it chanced on the day before Little Christmas Eve[1] that one of the workpeople had to fetch something from the loft.

There stood the master, deep in thought, by one of the meal sacks, staring down on the ground before him.

“Don’t you see the iron ring down in the floor there?” he asked.

But the man saw no ring.

“I see it there—­the earth draws,” he sighed heavily.

On Little Christmas Eve he was nowhere to be found, nor on the day after, though they searched for him high and low, and made inquiries about him everywhere amidst the Yule-tide bustle and merriment.

But late on Christmas Eve, while they were all running about in the utmost anxiety, not knowing whether they should lay the table or not, all at once in he came through the door.