A few seconds later I was lifted out of my shell by my parents, and I
fell at my father's feet and clung whimpering to his knee.
"Father, father!" were the only words I could stammer out. He reached
down to me with both his arms, lifted me up to his breast, and my hair
was wet with his tears.
In that moment the eyes of my understanding were opened.
I saw how dreadful it was to anger and offend such a father. But I saw,
too, why I had done so--from sheer longing to see my father's face
before me, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice speaking
to _me_. If he could not be cheery as others were with me, and as he,
at that time so care-laden, seldom was, then I would at least look into
his angry eyes, hear his harsh words. They went tingling deliciously
all through me, and drew me to him with irresistible might. At least
they were my father's eyes and words.
No further jar unhallowed our Christmas Eve, and from that day on
things were very different. My father had become deeply aware of his
love for me and my devotion to him; and, in many an hour of play, work,
and rest, bestowed upon me his dear face and kindly conversation, so
that I never again needed to get them by guile.