a little child from day to day, from year to year, putting tender arms around him, bending over his first wavering steps, rejoicing in his joys, wiping away the tears from his eyes, as he had never tried to wipe her tears away,-and the child was himself.  She had done everything for the child’s sake, but what had the child done for her sake?  And the child was himself:  that was what he had come to,-after the nightfire had burned out, after the darkness had grown thin and melted in the thoughts that pulsed through it like rapid waves of light,-that was what he had come to in the early morning:  himself, a child in his mother’s arms.

Then he arose and went out of the grotto softly, making the threefold sign of reverence; and the eyes of Mary followed him with kind looks.

Joseph of Nazareth was still waiting outside the door.

“How was it that you did not see the angels?” he asked.  “Were you not with the other shepherds?”

“No,” answered Ammiel, “I was asleep.  But I have seen the mother and the child.  Blessed be the house that holds them.”

“You are strangely clad for a shepherd,” said Joseph.  “Where do you come from?”

“From a far country,” replied Ammiel; “from a country that you have never visited.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Joseph.

“I am going home,” answered Ammiel, “to my mother’s and my father’s house in Galilee.”

“Go in peace, friend,” said Joseph.

And the sad shepherd took up his battered staff, and went on his way rejoicing.