out every thing else. It was like
the refrain in the Burgundy carols, "Noel, Noel," which comes again
and again, and never tires of coming.

A whole year passed away. Cristobal's mother only prayed now that her
boy might suffer less: she had ceased to pray for the healing of his
blindness.

Now it was Christmas-tide again. Ever since Advent, people had been
clearing their throats, and singing carols. They roasted chestnuts,
drank white wine, and chanted praises of the "Little Jesus," who was
soon to come, bringing peace on earth, good-will to men.

In the streets, one heard bagpipes and minstrels; and, by the
hearthstones, the music of the wandering piper. The children began to
talk again of the Yule-log, and to wonder what gifts Noel would bring
to place under each end of it; for these little folks, who have no
stocking-saint like our Santa Claus, believe in another quite as good,
who rains down sugar-plums in the night.

Everywhere there was a joyful bustle. Housewives were making ready
their choicest dishes for the great Christmas-supper; fathers were
slyly peeping into shop-windows, and children hoarding their sous and
centimes for bonbons and comfits.

Everybody was merry but Cristobal; or so thought the lad. He had no
money to spend, and little but pain for his holiday-cheer. A patch
here and there in his worn clothes was the best present his thrifty
mother was able to make; always excepting the little variegated taper,
which few were too poor to buy.

Christmas Eve came. Family friends dropped in. The Yule-log was set
on the fire with shouts and singing. "Oh that I could see these kind
faces!" moaned Cristobal. "No doubt, Jasper's chestnuts are popping
merrily; and his shoes will be full of presents. And here am I! My
head aches, and my eye-balls burn."

He stole out of the room, and, throwing himself on a wicker bench,
mused over his troubles in solitude. One might have supposed him
sleeping; for how should one imagine that his beautiful eyes were of
no manner of use, except when they were closed? When Cristobal said,
"Let me see," he dropped his eye-lids; and what he saw then, no artist
can paint.

On this night, a beautiful child appeared before him, as like the
picture of the Little Jesus as if it had stepped out of its frame on
the church-wall. Even the crimson and blue tints of the old painting
were faithfully preserved; and every fold of the soft drapery was the
very same.

"I saw you, Cristo