The sight roused the lad a little from his stupor.  He thrust it in his shirt, and stroked Patrasche and drew him onward.  The dog looked up wistfully in his face.

Nello made straight for the mill-house, and went to the house-door and struck on its panels.  The miller’s wife opened it weeping, with little Alois clinging close to her skirts.  “Is it thee, thou poor lad?” she said kindly through her tears.  “Get thee gone ere the Baas see thee.  We are in sore trouble to-night.  He is out seeking for a power of money that he has let fall riding homeward, and in this snow he never will find it; and God knows it will go nigh to ruin us.  It is Heaven’s own judgment for the things we have done to thee.”

Nello put the note-case in her hand and called Patrasche within the house.  “Patrasche found the money to-night,” he said quickly.  “Tell Baas Cogez so; I think he will not deny the dog shelter and food in his old age.  Keep him from pursuing me, and I pray of you to be good to him.”

Ere either woman or dog knew what he meant he had stooped and kissed Patrasche, then closed the door hurriedly, and disappeared in the gloom of the fast-falling night.

The woman and the child stood speechless with joy and fear:  Patrasche vainly spent the fury of his anguish against the iron-bound oak of the barred house-door.  They did not dare unbar the door and let him forth:  they tried all they could to solace him.  They brought him sweet cakes and juicy meats; they tempted him with the best they had; they tried to lure him to abide by the warmth of the hearth; but it was of no avail.  Patrasche refused to be comforted or to stir from the barred portal.

It was six o’clock when from an opposite entrance the miller at last came, jaded and broken, into his wife’s presence.  “It is lost forever,” he said with an ashen cheek and a quiver in his stern voice.  “We have looked with lanterns everywhere:  it is gone,—­the little maiden’s portion and all!”

His wife put the money into his hand, and told him how it had come to her.  The strong man sank trembling into a seat and covered his face, ashamed and almost afraid.  “I have been cruel to the lad,” he muttered at length:  “I deserved not to have good at his hands.”

Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her father and nestled against him her fair curly head.  “Nello may come here again, father?” she whispered.  “He may come to-morrow as he used to do?”

The miller pressed her in his arms:  his hard, sunburned face was very pale, and his mouth trembled.  “Surely, surely,” he answered his child.  “He shall bide here on Christmas Day, and any other day he will.  God helping me, I will make amends to the boy,—­I will make amends.”

Little Alois kissed him in gratitude and joy, then slid from his knees and ran to where the dog kept watch by the door.  “And to-night I may feast Patrasche?” she cried in a child’s thoughtless glee.