and the old olive tree swayed no longer in the night wind, but bent its branches reverently in the presence of the little Master. It seemed as if the wind, too, stayed in its shifting course just then; for suddenly there was a solemn hush.

"Thy father sleeps,' said the little Master, and it is well that it is so; for that I love thee, Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in my Father's kingdom, I would show thee the glories of my birthright.'

14. "Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than the light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that hillside. The heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the earth. More wondrous still, the stars, falling from their places in the sky, clustered upon the old olive tree, and swung hither and thither like colored lanterns. The flowers of the hillside all awakened, and they, too, danced and sang.

"The angels, coming hither, hung gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old olive, where swung the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I shall never see again.

"When Dimas heard and saw these things he fell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the little Master's garment, he kissed it.

"Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,' said the little Master; but first must all things be fulfilled.'

15. “All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hillside was still beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven."

"Well, is that all?" asked the old clock.

"No," said the moonbeam; "but I am nearly done. The years went on. Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean's bosom, sometimes I scampered o'er a battlefield, sometimes I lay upon a dead child's face. I heard the voices of Darkness and mothers' lullabies and sick men's prayers, and so the years went on.

16. "I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not upon.

"But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before, though where I did not know,—and this voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice called 'Dimas, Dimas!' and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made

answer.

17. "Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked

criminal there remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon the hillside. Long years of sinful life had seared their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and I seemed to see the shepherd's son again.

"The Master!' cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might see him that spake.

"O Dimas, how art thou changed!' cried the Master, yet there was in his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.

18. "Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the Master's consoling voice and the Master's presence there wrought in the dying criminal such a new spirit that when at last his head fell upon his bosom, and the men about the cross said that he was dead, it seemed as if I shined, not upon a felon's face, but upon the face of the gentle shepherd lad, the son of Benoni.

"And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the little Master's words that he had spoken under the old olive tree upon the hillside: Your eyes behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,' I whispered, 'for with the Master you walk in Paradise.'

19. Ah, little Dear-my-Soul, you know-you know whereof the moonbeam spake. The shepherd's bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the old olive tree is gone,

the flowers of the hillside are withered, and none knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But last night again there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the angels descended from the sky to earth, and the stars sang together in glory.

And the bells, hear them, little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are ringing, the bells bear us the good tidings of great joy this Christmas morning, that our Christ is born, and that with him he bringeth peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

THE STORY OF FLORINDA.

moc'cȧ sin

ĕs pě'cial ly
(sh)

BY ABBY MORTON DIAZ.

měs'sen ger

coŭr a'geous

1. MR. BOWEN came over from England more than two hundred years ago, bringing his family with him. The country was then covered with woods. Indians, deer, wolves, and foxes had it pretty much to themselves.

There was one other house in the valley, and only one, and that belonged to a man named Moore. Four miles away, at the Point, there were some dozen or twenty houses, a store, and a mill; no road between, only a

blind pathway through the woods. Those woods reached hundreds of miles.

2. Mr. Bowen had lived in this country a little more than a year when his wife died, leaving three children,— Philip, not quite eleven, Nathaniel, six, and Polly, three.

He hired a young girl to take care of these children and to keep house for him. Her name was Florinda LeShore. She was born in France, but had spent the greater part of her life in England. She was only fifteen years old.

3. Florinda went to Mr. Bowen's house sometime in November. On the 29th of December, as Mr. Bowen and Mr. Moore were saddling their horses to go to the store, word came that they must start at once for a place about fifteen miles away to consult with other settlers as to what should be done to defend themselves against the Indians.

So the two men turned their horses' heads in the direction of Dermott's Crossing, and thought they should make good time and be back by noon of the next day.

4. Two days and two nights passed, and they had neither come nor sent any message. By that time there was not much left to eat in either house. Florinda and the children slept both nights at Mrs. Moore's. Mrs. Moore's house was built of heavy timbers, and its doors were oak, studded with spikes.