Still the snow fell heavily, covering her over with its cold white mantle, but she did not move. The voice of the chimes was whispering in her ear such beautiful things. It was delightful, and all the dread shadows that filled the night and storm faded away, for they were only born of earth.
Yes! it told her of a great Christmas tree up in Heaven the Golden. There was a pure white robe and shining wings, the priceless gift of the Father’s love. These were all marked with her name, and she was very happy.
She was no longer hungry nor cold, for the snow mantle was thick now over her little shrunken form. Only the tiny pale face looked out from the white covering, and that was leaning against the pillar of the great doorway. The old bonnet had fallen off; and she tried no longer to confine it. When the storm was over and the moon came out, it shone upon her golden brown hair, making it luminous with beauty.
How smoothly it sailed along, that crescent boat of the sky; and the deep blue eyes watching it saw such marvelous sights so pleasant, that a sweet peace gathered around the child. The poor little heart, that in the early hours of the blessed Christmas Eve beat with the quick flutter of fearful timidity and loneliness, was at rest in the holy calm.
Yes! there was the dear mother in the Golden Boat, so peaceful and free from care. How tenderly her dear eyes shone, and how beautiful she was in the radiant light of heaven! She beckoned with her hand, and the little child reached eagerly out to her, crying, “It is the mother! Oh, mother, dear, I am coming! Wait, mother! I am com--”
Up to the Crescent Boat on to Heaven the Golden, and to the throne of the loving God, had passed the spirit of the little child. Just then a bright star fell down from the fleecy clouds and rested upon the pure, ice-cold forehead, leaning so heavily against the great pillar of the stately doorway.
The cadence of the last chime was dying away upon the still night air. It was twelve o’clock, and the musician went home. The great belfry was left silent, and in the coming of the holy Christmas dawning all the peaceful town of Bruges slept.
In the morning the servant found a little child dead upon the door steps of the grand mansion, with the frost glittering like a crown of glory in her golden hair. It was said she was a poor lace-maker’s child, who had died in great poverty and want. The crowd gathered about the door, saying, “It is sad, oh! very sad!” but they knew nothing of what the music of the bells had been to her--nothing of the Golden Boat.