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“Well, is that all?” asked the old clock.

“No,” said the moonbeam; “but I am nearly done. The years went on. Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean’s bosom, sometimes I scampered o’er a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child’s face. I heard the voices of Darkness and mothers’ lullabies and sick men’s prayers–and so the years went on.

“I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before,–though where I did not know,–and this voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice called ‘Dimas, Dimas!’ and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made answer.

“Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had seared their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and in the yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd’s son again.

“‘The Master!’ cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might see him that spake.

“‘O Dimas, how art thou changed!’ cried the Master, yet there was in his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.

“Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the Master’s consoling voice and the Master’s presence there wrought in the dying criminal such a new spirit, that when at last his head fell upon his bosom, and the men about the cross said that he was dead, it seemed as if I shined not upon a felon’s face, but upon the face of the gentle shepherd lad, the son of Benoni.

“And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the little Master’s words that he had spoken under the old olive-tree upon the hill-side: ‘Your eyes behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,’ I whispered, ‘for with the Master you walk in Paradise.'”

* * * * *

Ah, little Dear-my-Soul, you know–you know whereof the moonbeam spake. The shepherd’s bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the old olive-tree is gone, the flowers of the hill-side are withered, and none knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But last night, again, there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the angels descended from the sky to earth, and the stars sang together in glory. And the bells,–hear them, little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are ringing,–the bells bear us the good tidings of great joy this Christmas morning, that our Christ is born, and that with him he bringeth peace on earth and good-will toward men.