g forth the one arm which was free she threw it around
her son's neck and kissed him fondly, while the little child which had
wrought the change,--a latter-day miracle of broken affections made
whole, of bitter wounds healed by the touch of innocence,--lay there
between them, striving, with its playful hands, to catch at its mother's
bowing head.

* * * * *

As Jose Rosado and I walked homeward through the pale-blue moonlight, we
did not say much. I was deeply moved by the touching scene I had beheld;
and he was exceedingly reflective.

At last, as we neared La Fonda's vine-run walls, he said:

"Senor, do you think the miracles are all over nowadays?"

"I know not, Senor Jose," I answered; "but there are certainly strange
potencies lurking in the depths of a mother's love."

_From a Cuirassier's Note-Book._

"He was a handsome fellow, the
son of a peasant; but he carried
his blue dolman very well, this
young soldier."

_De Maupassant._

SALVETTE AND BERNADOU.

I.

It is the eve of Christmas in a large village of Bavaria. Along the
snow-whitened streets, amid the confusion of the fog and noise of
carriages and bells, the crowd presses joyously about cook-shops,
wine-booths, and busy stores. Rustling with a light sweep of sound
against the flower-twined and be-ribboned stalls, branches of green
holly, or whole saplings, graced with pendants and shading the heads
below like boughs of the Thuringian forest, go by in happy arms: a
remembrance of nature in the torpid life of winter.

Day dies out. Far away, behind the gardens of the Residence, lingers a
glimmer of the departing sun, red in the fog; and in the town is such
gaiety, such hurry of preparation for the holiday, that each jet of
light which springs up in the many windows seems to hang from some vast
Christmas-tree.

This is, in truth, no ordinary Christmas. It is the year of grace
eighteen hundred and seventy, and the holy day is only a pretext the
more to drink to the illustrious Von der Than and celebrate the triumph
of the Bavarian troops.

"Noel, Noel!" The very Jews of the old town join in the mirth. Behold
the aged Augustus Cahn who turns the corner by the "Blue Grapes!" Truly,
his eyes have never shined before as they do to-night; nor has his
little wicker satchel ever jingled so lightly. Across his sleeve, worn
by the cords of sacks, is passed an honest little hamper, full to th