h was drifting
deeper and deeper upon the mountain side. This was the stormiest Christmas
Eve which had been seen for years, and all the little boys who had good
homes were hugging themselves close to the fire, glad that they were not
out in the bleak night. Every window was full of flickering tapers to
light the expected Holy Child upon His way through the village to the
church. But little Pierre had strayed so far from the road that he could
not see these rows and rows of tiny earth-stars, any more than he could
see through the snow the far-off sky-stars which the angels had lighted
along the streets of heaven.

Pierre was on his way to the village from the orphan boys' home at the
Abbe's charity school. And that was not like a happy real home, for the
little Brothers were rough and rude and far from loving one another. He
had started at dusk from the school, hoping to be at the village church
before curfew. For Pierre had a sweet little voice, and he was to earn a
few pennies by singing in the choir on Christmas morning. But it was
growing late. The church would be closed and the Cure gone home before
Pierre could reach it; and then what should he do?

The snow whirled faster and faster, and Pierre's legs found it harder and
harder to move themselves through the great drifts. They seemed heavy and
numb, and he was growing oh, so tired! If he could but lie down to sleep
until Christmas Day! But he knew that he must not do that. For those who
choose this kind of soft and tempting bed turn into ice-people, and do not
wake up in the morning. So he bent his head and tried to plough on through
the drifts.

Whish! A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in
the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance. The next
moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in
his numb hands. It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it
seemed to come. It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost
strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes. Pierre
stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying to
bring it back to life.

"Poor bird!" he said softly. "You are lost in the snow, like me. I will
try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body." He put the
bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart. Presently the dove
opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint "Coo!"

"I wish I had somethi