“The poor things who were disappointed, as well as the unfortunate ones for whom no voice was raised, made me very unhappy; but I could do nothing for them.

“Among the latter I noticed a woman whom I had known well on earth, and who deserved to be among the lost, I thought.  I had never anticipated any other sentence for her.  You do not understand, children, what a cold heart is; but hers had been either ice or stone.  Although she had possessed more than was needed to gratify her own wants, she could never be moved by the most touching appeals of the poorest to relieve their distress.  She had used other people to satisfy her selfish desires and then discarded them ruthlessly.  She had gone through life without loving one single soul—­of that I felt convinced—­and no one had loved her, and she had died unregretted.  She must have been as wretched on earth as she was there in Hell; for which of us can be happy here, if we do not love and are not loved?

“‘There is no chance of a voice being raised in her favour,’ I said to myself.  But I was wrong; for at that moment a lovely angel-child flew past me on its blue and white wings.  Without any sign of fear it flew direct to St. Peter, who looked formidable enough with his long beard and great keys, and, pointing with its little forefinger to the hard-hearted woman, cried:  ‘She once gave me a handful of nuts.’

“‘Really,’ answered the keeper of Heaven.  ’That was not much, and yet I am surprised; for that woman would not part with so much as a pin, during her life.  But you little one, who were you on earth?’

“‘Little Hannele was my name,’ answered the angel.  ’I died of starvation, and only once did any one give me anything in my life to make me happy, and that was that woman yonder.’

“‘Marvellous,’ answered Peter, stroking his white beard.  ’No doubt the nuts were given as a miserly payment of some service you did her.’

“‘No, no,’ the angel answered decidedly.

“‘Well, tell us how it happened then,’ the apostle commanded, and the dear little soul obeyed: 

“’My sick mother and I lived in the city all alone, for father was dead.  Just before Christmas we had nothing more to eat.  So mother, though she lay in bed and her head and hands were burning, made some little sheep of bits of wood and cotton and I carried them to the Christmas market.  There I sat on some steps and offered them for sale to the passers-by; but nobody wanted them.  Hours passed, and it was very cold; the open wound in my knee, which no one saw, pained me so, and the frost in my fingers and toes burned and itched dreadfully.  Evening came, the lamps were lighted, but I dared not go home; for only one person had thrown a copper into my lap, and I needed more to buy a bit of bread and a few coals.  My own pangs hurt me, but that mother lay at home alone, with no one to hand her anything, or support her when her breathing became difficult,