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Updated: June 10, 2025
"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for him!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "You are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it." "Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake?
Elsa came in with two little packages in her hand. "Here's your book mamma sent you," she said. "She has put your name in it. I want to show you my book too." Johanson put his gift in his pocket hastily, with a short expression of thanks, and then looked expectantly at the child.
"I want to call it all 'The Beata Charity, for Beata was my mother's name," Johanson had said to the pastor, who was now in his full confidence. They knew each other as the Alf and Lars of the olden time. They knew each other now as forgiven sinners, each striving in his own way to work for the glory of the Master's kingdom. Each felt that he was indebted to the other.
He carried him all the way home to the fold, where his mother was, and there he was safe safe safe! Wasn't that a Good Shepherd?" There was no answer. "My mother told me all about it, and I like that picture best and that story best. You understand what it means?" "Yes," said Johanson. There were tears in his eyes.
Johanson sat alone in his corner, when Elsa tripped away from her mother, and giving a gleeful little hop, she seated herself beside him, laid her small hand lightly on his knee, and looked up at him lovingly and protectingly as she did so. Now she felt she really owned him. He was her poor man, a kind of friend and relation to her.
Do you see that crack across the middle of the floor, with three big, dark knots in the middle on each side of it? That's my landmark. You come over it, and there'll be mischief!" "I shall take great pleasure in attending to your wishes. It is not likely that I shall visit you often," said Johanson, rising and bowing with much politeness, and then promptly resuming his seat.
He was sitting in the sacristy at the appointed time, with a group of young rustics standing about him, when Johanson came quietly in. "I can attend to you first," said the pastor, turning kindly towards the dark-bearded man. "I can wait; I am in no hurry," was the reply. The waiting was long, as had been expected.
The weather had become extremely cold, but the poorhouse poet went on his rounds, persisting in being dressed as in the autumn. It had been snowing all night, and the cold was excessive. Johanson was awakened by an unusual chill in the air. A long point of snow lay along the floor of his room, as it had drifted in under the not over-tight door. He dressed and hurried out.
Johanson had left the door slightly ajar, and little Elsa, the pastor's child, having caught a glimpse of a familiar face, ran out, to come back immediately leading triumphantly a rosy-cheeked girl, who was all blushes as she was brought into the dining-room, made to her for the time sacred ground.
She had a present for Johanson. It was but a bit of work on perforated paper, done by her own hands a lamb outlined in gay silk; but it was a lamb, and she felt that meant something between her and Johanson, and it did. He was moved when he took it, and thanked her with good wishes for Christmas from the depths of his heart. "I am so happy, Johanson," she said, "for papa and mamma are so glad.
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