beheld, and so could not tell of them, he was yet able to give
little Otto another pleasure that no one else could give.

He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock
and key wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and
metal, and with covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with
precious stones. But within these covers, beautiful as they
were, lay the real wonder of the books, like the soul in the
body; for there, beside the black letters and initials, gay with
red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures painted upon the
creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin with the
golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings;
the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with
glories about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the
blue sky above. But, most beautiful of all was the picture of
the Christ Child lying in the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine
gazing at him.

Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where
these treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing
the few grains of dust from them, would lay them upon the table
beside the oriel window in front of his little namesake,
allowing the little boy freedom to turn the leaves as he chose.

Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ
Child in the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds,
and the Kine. And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and
gazing upon it, the old Abbot would sit watching him with a
faint, half-sad smile flickering around his thin lips and his
pale, narrow face.