Over an old city of Europe—never mind which—the Christmas-eve stars were twinkling faintly as the north wind drove the gathering clouds across the sky. Soon the snow began to fall, drifting whitely over the steep brown roofs of the ancient houses and covering the cobble-stones of the winding streets with a soft fleece. In the midst of the city rose a great cathedral, where the shining flakes touched lightly the stone fruits and flowers wreathing the beautiful portal, and tufted the wings of the marble angels carved above it till they seemed all plumed and feathery for flight.
Within the gray walls, here and there before some shrine, a few worshippers knelt; or a tall candle shone with a twinkling flame, as if the stars, blotted out of the sky, were coming down to shine on earth. But though these little, golden flames lighted a small space about them, the echoing aisles and high vaulted roof were still dim and shadowy, for it was not yet time for the midnight mass when hundreds more of the tall white candles would blaze out in honor of the Christ-child's birthday.
Indeed, everything was ready and waiting for the holy hour. Green Christmas garlands wound the fluted pillars and decked the walls between the lovely stained windows, and twined about the altar where a wonderful little scene,—or "creche," as it was called,—had been made in memory of the place in Bethlehem where the little Jesus was born. There at the back were the stalls where one might see the heads of the ox and the ass, carved from wood and painted to resemble life; while directly in front was the manger lined, like a pretty nest, with soft hay and golden straw, and in it lay the image of the blessed Christ-child, wrapped in swaddling clothes of white linen and with a halo of pure gold about his soft curls. At the head of the manger was a waxen figure of Mother Mary in a robe of heavenly blue, her hands clasped and her sweet eyes gazing lovingly into the face of her little Son. Near her stood Saint Joseph, and in front of the manger knelt the shepherds who had come to worship the newborn Babe, their crooks in their hands and their shaggy brown cloaks looking very rough beside the splendid mantles of the three wise kings. These were kneeling also, the aged Gaspar, with his long silvery beard, Melchior, strong and thoughtful, and Balthazzar, young and handsome, all sparkling with jewels and cloth of gold. Their heads were bare, for their precious crowns lay before the manger of the little Jesus, to whom they offered also their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. Over all hung a golden star which would shine and sparkle when the many tall candles were lighted, and round about hovered waxen angels in robes of purest white.
Everything was very still and beautiful, ready for the coming of the holy midnight. The star waited to twinkle, the candles to flash into golden flame, the white-robed angels seemed impatient to break into joyous song, and the shepherds and kings to bow lower still before the little Jesus. And high up in the cathedral tower the chime of bells waited also to ring out their gold and silver notes.
While all these things were thus hushed expectantly, now and again some worshipper entered through the beautiful open portal; and presently, all alone, there slipped in a little girl. A ragged shawl partly covered her head and her thin little figure, and she clasped in her arms a bundle wrapped in a tattered quilt. If you had lifted the corner of this, you would have seen the wan face of a baby, its tiny cheeks pale and sunken and its little lips blue with cold; for both shawl and quilt were thickly powdered with snowflakes.
The little girl looked timidly about her, and then slowly drawing near the altar where stood the creche, sank down on the stone floor to rest.