lowers of the hill-side all
awakened, and they, too, danced and sang. The angels, coming hither,
hung gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old
olive, where swung the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though
I might live forever, I shall never see again. When Dimas heard and
saw these things he fell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the
little Master's garment, he kissed it.

"'Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,' said the little
Master; 'but first must all things be fulfilled.'

"All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with
their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars
dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hill-side
was still beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven."

"Well, is that all?" asked the old clock.

"No," said the moonbeam; "but I am nearly done. The years went on.
Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean's bosom, sometimes I scampered o'er
a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child's face. I heard the
voices of Darkness and mothers' lullabies and sick men's prayers--and
so the years went on.

"I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly
pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched
face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but
none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was
lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not
upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before,--though
where I did not know,--and this voice blessed those that railed and
jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice called
'Dimas, Dimas!' and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made
answer.

"Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there
remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his
innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had seared
their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar
voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and in the
yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd's son
again.

"'The Master!' cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he
might see him that spake.

"'O Dimas, how art thou changed!' cried the Master, yet there was in
his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.

"Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the
Ma