Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming.  It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for that.  The light seemed still to call him in.  From what do you suppose the light came?  Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve.  There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree.  The room was plainly furnished but it was very clean.  Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside her.  The two children were looking into their mother’s face and listening to a story.  She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think.  A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.

The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane.  So sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door.  The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up.  “What was that, mother?” asked the little girl at her side.  “I think it was some one tapping on the door,” replied the mother.  “Run as quickly as you can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in this storm.”  “Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the window-pane,” said the little girl.  “Do please go on with our story.”  Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door.  “My child, my child,” exclaimed the mother, rising, “that certainly was a rap on the door.  Run quickly and open it.  No one must be left out in the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve.”

The child ran to the door and threw it wide open.  The mother saw the ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and almost bare feet.  She held out both hands and drew him into the warm, bright room.  “You poor, dear child,” was all she said, and putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast.  “He is very cold, my children,” she exclaimed.  “We must warm him.”  “And,” added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too.”  “Yes,” said the mother, “but first let us warm him—­”

The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and her own little ones warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs.  The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the child’s face.  She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the candle and the fire light shone over them.  For a moment the room was very still.  By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, “May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?” “Yes,” said the mother.  With that