Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise sounded overhead.

Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, with their black hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the air to destroy their foes?

A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops.  It gripped the oak by its branches and tore it from its roots.  Backward it fell, like a ruined tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces.

Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the presence of almighty power.

Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” he cried, “already felled and split for your new building.  On this spot shall rise a chapel to the true God and his servant St. Peter.

“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standing straight and green, with its top pointing towards the stars, amid the divided ruins of the fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no stain of blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship.  See how it points to the sky.  Let us call it the tree of the Christ-child.  Take it up and carry it to the chieftain’s hall.  You shall go no more into the shadows of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame.  You shall keep them at home, with laughter and song and rites of love.  The thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there shall not be a home in all Germany where the children are not gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of Christ.”

So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyous procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge.  The horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the new burden had made it lighter.

When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open the doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it.  They kindled lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full of fire-flies.  The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odor of the balsam filled the house.

Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at the end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe in the manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of angels and their midnight song.  All the people listened, charmed into stillness.

But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded by her soft arm, grew restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at his mother’s ear.

“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry out so loud, when the priest was going to send me to Valhalla?”

“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and pressed him closer to her side.

“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains upon her breast, “see, your dress is red!  What are these stains?  Did some one hurt you?”

The mother closed his mouth with a kiss.  “Dear, be still, and listen!”