composure of holy awe she carried the gift of the child Jesus to the
candle, that she might the better admire its beauty and know its
preciousness. But the light had no sooner fallen upon it than a strange
undefinable doubt awoke within her. Whatever it was, it was the very
essence of loveliness--the tiny darling with its alabaster face, and its
delicately modelled hands and fingers! A long night-gown covered all
the rest.--Was it possible?--Could it be?--Yes, indeed! it must be--it
could be nothing else than a _real_ baby! What a goose she had been!
Of course it was baby Jesus himself!--for was not this his very own
Christmas Day on which he was always born?--If she had felt awe of his
gift before, what a grandeur of adoring love, what a divine dignity
possessed her, holding in her arms the very child himself! One shudder
of bliss passed through her, and in an agony of possession she clasped
the baby to her great heart--then at once became still with the
satisfaction of eternity, with the peace of God. She sat down on the
stool, near the little table, with her back to the candle, that its
rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping Jesus and wake him:
there she sat, lost in the very majesty of bliss, at once the mother
and the slave of the Lord Jesus.

She sat for a time still as marble waiting for marble to awake,
heedful as tenderest woman not to rouse him before his time, though
her heart was swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his
Father to be as good as chasten her. And as she sat, she began, after
her wont, to model her face to the likeness of his, that she might
understand his stillness--the absolute peace that dwelt on his
countenance. But as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her:
Jesus lay so very still--never moved, never opened his pale eye-lids!
And now set thinking, she noted that he did not breathe. She had seen
babies asleep, and their breath came and went--their little bosoms