THE little hunchback laid down the book he had been reading. His mind was flooded with the beauty of the thoughts. The lonely moan of the wind among the pines, had taken a new sound to him. There were pictures in the fire, instead of glowing coals.

“A child in rags came to the door,” he whispered softly, repeating word for word what he had read.

“He was snow-drenched, and very weary, and the woman took him in. She had not much to make her happy. She was a very lonely woman, all her little ones were grown. But she lighted her small tree for memory’s sake, and when the child cried on her doorstep, she made him welcome to her home, because on Christmas Eve, the angels told her, one such little child was born; and so on Christmas Eve we must be kind to little children, and do one golden deed to help another.

“And then her little tree grew big and beautiful, and on it hung the things that she most needed, and when she looked for the little child, he was no longer dressed in rags, but his garments shone like the snow, and she knew it was the Christ she had taken in.”

And the hunchback sighed with joy, as he inhaled the consciousness.

“Maybe on Christmas Eve,” he said, “Some one like that will come to me. Some beggar will come to the door, and will not be a beggar, but the Christ, whose love makes little children well.”

He felt the hump on his back as he spoke, and looked at his short limbs. He almost seemed to touch the healing power, which made the crooked straight, and the rough places smooth.

Someone knocked loudly at the door. Guests were not frequent in this lonely spot, but Oscar had prepared the way for one, by thought.

This guest did not wait for answer nor for welcome. He came in with the stinging wind and driving snow. His hungry eyes