watched
it when it winked its sleepy eye, eagerly begging his mamma to snuff
it awake again. How gayly the streets twinkled with midnight lanterns!
And how mortifying to the stars to be outdone by such a grand
illumination!

A new painting had just been hung in the church,--the Holy Child,
called by the people "Little Jesus," with an aureola about his head.
Cristobal looked at this picture with reverent delight; and, to his
surprise, the Holy Child returned his gaze: wherever he went, the
sweet, sorrowful eyes followed him. There was a wondrous charm in that
pleading glance. Why was it so wistful? What had those deep eyes to
say?

The air was cloudy with the breath of frankincense and myrrh. Deep
voices and the heavy organ sounded chants and anthems. There were
prayers to the coming Messiah, and the sprinkling of holy water; and,
at last, the midnight mass was ended.

Then, in tumult and great haste, the people went home for
merry-makings. Cristobal, eager to see what the Yule-log might have in
store for him, rushed out of the church with careless speed, stumbling
over a boy who stood in his way,--the haughty, insolent Jasper.
Jasper's beautiful Christmas-candle was cracked in twenty pieces by
his fall.

"I'll teach you better manners, young peasant!" cried he, rushing upon
Cristobal in a frenzy, and dealing fierce blows without mercy or
reason.

It was then that Cristobal's eyes went out like falling stars. Their
lustre and beauty remained; but they were empty caskets, their vision
gone.

Then followed terrible anguish; and all Cristobal's mother could do
was to hold her boy in her arms, and soothe him by singing. At last
the fever was spent; but the pain still throbbed on, and sometimes
seemed to burn into Cristobal's brain. He cried out again and again,
"What right had that fierce Jasper to spring upon me so? I meant him
no harm; and he knew it. Oh, I would like to see him chained in a den!
He is like the wicked people who are turned into wolves at
Christmas-tide. I would cry for joy if I could hear him groan with
such pain as mine!"

Poor Cristobal never hoped to see again. He carried in his mind
pictures of cities and hamlets, of trees, flowers, and old familiar
faces; but oftenest came Jasper's face, just as it had last glared on
him with blood-thirsty eyes. It was a terrible countenance. Only one
charm could dispel the horror,--the remembrance of the beautiful Child
in the church. That picture blotted