They were standing in the portals of the City everlasting. Their garments were like unto woven light, and their faces beautiful past mortal ken, with radiant light and love divine. They were spirits, purified of all sin through their faith in the eternal Christ, whose works were righteousness and truth forever, whose progress ne'er could cease. Once they had been dwellers in prison cells of earthly flesh. They had groped in the dimness of a faint reflection of the light withheld, had fought with pain and sin and death, till faith had led them forth, step by step, nearer and nearer to the light and glory that can be dimmed. * never * Far in the West the day grew weary, And sighed to sink into the lap of night, "Sing your lullaby, for I am weary, Earth is cold and earth is dreary. Deck her for my couch in softest white." On earth, where once the heavenly dwellers lived and wrought as children of men, the day was sinking quietly to rest. In the west, only a faint glimmer like a tender goodnight, warmed the margin of the sky. The stars, those far mystic worlds that send their No. 12. rays like hopeful messages from the vast unknown, were hidden tonight by the mists that hung low in the heaven. The day had been cold, so cold that the pale rays of the sun failed to give cheer. But night was of a milder mood and with her coming a stillness had settled over earth that told of the approach of gentler things. And they came, silent, warm and white-little billowy things-down, softly down, noiselessly, persistently, till earth shone softly through the darkness in her shawl of gleaming white. On field and lane the soft flakes lay, trees shone like spectres of their former selves, and white-hooded stood the hay-stacks and gables in the night. Down, still down! In the crowded street of a great city they came, amid the jostling throng, the hurrying cabs and electric cars, making a white blanket for the horses standing at the curb, and trimming with ermine, ragged coats and caps, velvety bonnets and costly furs. Soiled and trodden under foot, yet ever falling, patiently, busily, assiduously, as if all must be covered, pure and white and fair; and for what? It was Christmas eve. * * ** And beyond the gray cloud mantle, far, far from mortal ken, somewhere up among the shimmering, wondrous star-world stood the immortal company before the gates of a City everlasting. Their gaze sought the earth, filled with the fulness of love's solicitude, and one whispered: "It is the birthnight of Christ. "Tis Christmas there tonight." "Dear earth," gently said another, "Blessed birthplace of our Lord. Early mother of our joy! For is she not the home of sorrow? And sorrow only giveth life to fullest joy." And yet another spake tenderly, "See, she suffers. For her children's sake is she cursed. That they may know the bitterness of sin and sorrow, she giveth room to Satan and his dark-souled brood. But patience, mother earth, 'tis God so wills it. This must be, that salvation, that eternal joy may come to thee and thine!" "And tonight her children draw us nearer, despite the piteous darkness there. For 'tis tonight there comes to many a heart a dawning of the heavenly Love reflected in love and the ministering of its kind. Tonight some souls there be, thrilling with the very echo of the ministering voice of our dearest Christ." "Ah!" exclaimed another, with infinite pity, "There are chords of the grand harmony of heaven in every human heart-imperfect and broken now-but again clear and sweet and full as human heart can bear. And tonight many there are atuned to the touch of the Master's hand. And when such hearts speak in the voice of song, 'tis then that angels love to bend the listening ear." "Let us go down," they said. "Earth's children call us and we love to go. Come, let us listen to the melodies of earth." "Yes," spake one, "we will go and hearken for the sweetest song and bring it back to heaven with us, a The cathedral spires pointed their ghostly fingers into the evening sky. On cornice and chaptrel lay cushions of white, and finials and antefix wore hoods like eider down. In the angles of the pilasters, and on the steps of the gothic porch the snow was piling deep and high. Through, the rose-wheels, symbolism of the tall arched windows, a flood of light turned the whiteness of the way to rainbow brilliancy; and the branches of the old elms that stood sentinel before, scintillated in the glow of myriad crystals diamond-like. Slowly now the chimes began to peal. High and clear above the noise of the street they tolled, calling, loudly calling to divine service. And from their iron throats rang the notes of a Christmas hymn. From far and near came the worshipers-gay young eyes under nodding plumes, wrinkled brows and sunken cheeks under crowns of silver sheen less white than the snow; nortly manhood, and matrons in holiday attire; through the snow they came, across the broad band of rainbow light, up the steps and into the hushed brilliancy within. Now a gay group entered, cheeks aglow and eyes sparkling from the crispness of the air without. Wealth and culture spoke in their attire and there was pride of youth and strength and beauty in every gesture. Laughter and light words were on their lips, till within the shelter of the vestibule, when the solemn air prevading all within checked them with its reminder of the deportment and mien customary in such a place. Youth is ever ready to find cause for laughter and jest, and these young patricians had found a fund of amusement in a unique figure that had plodded laboriously on before them. Shoulders bent under a cumbersome burden, with coat of a cut all but forgotten, so ancient it was, and hat low crowned and bent and broad of rim, the figure had trudged ever just in front. Innocent of any such intent, he had barred the narrow snow trail for more rapid progSo the jests flew hither and yon at the expense of "the fashionable young man who set the pace," and "the master that was to play a solo at the service tonight," etc. ress. But the figure, heeding neither jest nor scorn, plodded on its way in silence. That figure was old Jacques, the harper of St. Cloud. Who was there in all that place that did not know old Jacques? He was one of the features of the city, just like the statue of Victory, the Gate of Triumph, or any other fix ture there. Who was there that had not heard the strings of his plaintive old harp? His harp, old and worn and weather beaten like himself, was it a part of his corporeal self? For who had ever seen old Jacques and it apart? Rain or shine, summer or winter, you could hear its plaintive minor tones where the "bridge of the stone lions" empties its stream of passengers into the city vortex. In a nook under an old chestnut tree, you would be sure to find him sitting on his low camp-stool with his harp against his shoulder and his old hat on the ground beside him. His face-but who could describe his face-pen and brush failed though pen and brush had often tried, for old Jacques was pictur esque and a tempting "bit" to many an art student. The face-how it haunted one with its fringe of silver, its long locks, through which the river breezes played, with its sensitive mouth, sweet and tender as a child's, and its eyes that seemed full of visions of field and forest and sunny slopes, He looked at you with those brown child eyes of his and you felt that is you who stop to feel-as if you were looking into the eyes of some patient, tired animal, that longs for sympathy but has no voice for its ills. When daylight had faded from sky and river and the electric lights danced in the waves, his harp could yet be heard. When the summer sun was beating fiercely on his locks he was there, and there, too, when the cold wind blew the straggling wisps in his face and the stiff fingers could scarce draw a melody from the faithful strings. Yet though all knew old Jacques stones on the bridge or the carved and accepted him as they did the lions on their pediments, none knew who he was or whence he came, where the place he called his home for their kin. or who they were that claimed him He was ever alone, he and his almost too faithful harp that was heavy for his feeble frame to carry. He spoke to no one, silent and reticent he went his way, and if he uttered aught of himself it was but through the tones of his companion. Perhaps these deep eyes of his spoke a language of their own? If they did, alas! few-how few!-that cared to read their silent quest. The city's life rushed headlong on around him, absorbed in its own concerns; who had time for such human straws as he? And tonight he staggered with his harp up the steps of the old cathe dral while the jests of the young men dressed in the fashion of the and thoughtless sounded in his ear. day and among them the ones whose It was the organ tones coming heartless jests had wounded him a through the opening doors, majestic moment before. Yes, it was all true, and inviting, that were drawing him bitterly true; he was but the lonely like the magnet does the steel. Ah! harper of St. Cloud, and his harp those tones! When could old and he were but waiting for the sumJacques resist their beckoning? mons that should silence them forWhen but a tiny boy, already had ever. they drawn him, stirring his heart with a nameless woe till the tears had come, he knew not why. Then had come the happy days when his own voice was clearest and sweetest in the choir of boys cossacked and surpliced in spotless white. Ah, listen! It was the same old carol they used to sing of yore at Christmas tide! He stood in the hallowed interior now, his hat under his arm and his head, in bitter-sweet memories bent, against the harp's stout frame. And from above comes solemnly sweet the Christmas carol as of old: "Silent night, holy night. Over the hills a radiant light. How long, oh, how long ago, since up there in the choir, he had sung those same dear words! Was it all a dream. Surely he was still a boy and all the rest had never been-the long years of privation, of wandering -the sweet young wife and the grave in a distant land and the lonely void that had never left his heart? The bitter return, by all forgotten. surely that had never been! And his devotion to the art that was his all of earthly solace? No, oh no, that, that was not a dream! And his withered hand unconsciously crossed the strings. He longed to join as of yore in the singing. He lifted his face and his lips parted. Then his eves, seeking the choir above, beheld-not the white-robed boys-but men and wo Through nave and aisles, through vault and dome, the solemn musie rose and fell. And on its wings t bore the old, old story, of love divine and pity for the suffering, oh, the cruel suffering on the cross, of the sacrifice without sin that souls men might live. of But there were others in that stately edifice whom no mortal eyes beheld. As the first chords rose above the columned aisles and floated to the frescoed dome above, there stole into that stately minster an influence, pure and sweet as of some holy presence. And some there were whose hearts responsively were touched to true devotion. Had their eyes been opened to spiritual vision what wondrous things had they beheld! Above the bowing throng the angels' glorious company were listening, bending to the song, as human voice and organ tone sustained the theme of the carol sweet. Skilled fingers played the accom |