As he said this, the young angel rose, with arms outspread, from the
green meadow of Peacefield and, passing over the bounds of Heaven,
dropped swiftly as a shooting-star toward the night shadow of the
Earth. The other angels followed him--a throng of dazzling forms,
beautiful as a rain of jewels falling from the dark-blue sky. But
the child-angel went more swiftly than the others, because of the
certainty of gladness in his heart.

And as the others followed him they wondered who had been favoured
and chosen to receive the glad tidings.

"It must be the Emperor of the World and his counsellors," they
thought. But the flight passed over Rome.

"It may be the philosophers and the masters of learning," they
thought. But the flight passed over Athens.

"Can it be the High Priest of the Jews, and the elders and the
scribes?" they thought. But the flight passed over Jerusalem.

It floated out over the hill country of Bethlehem; the throng of
silent angels holding close together, as if perplexed and doubtful;
the child-angel darting on far in advance, as one who knew the way
through the darkness.

The villages were all still: the very houses seemed asleep; but in one
place there was a low sound of talking in a stable, near to an inn--a
sound as of a mother soothing her baby to rest.