ten thousand indwellers, its rich abbey,
its sleek burgomasters and stalwart men-
at-arms, and which has now but a tumble-
down, decayed, almshousy sort of an
existence; was then more than a league
away from the little hamlet that is to-day
a city. I was going to say that what it is
had nothing to do with what it was; but I
retract. It has everything in the world to
do with it. With the time when the populous
streets were mere forest paths, and
when the din of the great town was only
the clang of the forge iron, or the splash
of the mill-stream.

Your hand, and we will cross the planks
that bridge the flux of the past; here,
somewhat decayed and insecure, there,
slippery, and overgrown with the green
deposit of years.

So, now we are over. The hard stony
lineaments of the city lose their rigidity in
the waning light. They become impalpable
with something of dream-wavering,
reconstruct themselves into their original
combinations of rock and wood, and stand out in
solemn beauty beneath the stars. Pointed
arch and flying buttress of the great church
melt into dim vistas of forest trees springing
towards heaven, with the delicate tracery
of the frost carving upon their branches.
The roar of the city softens into a hum, and
resolves itself into a soothing sound of
falling water, as the mill-wheel goes its
round. The echo of the clocks that have
but now chimed the hour from tower and
steeple, circles out into the air, and comes
faintly back through the twilight years in
the music of the Christmas bells from that
old town more than a league and centuries
away. And now it grows darker and darker;
we can no longer distinguish the track by
which we came, for the fast-falling snow
obliterates every path. We can no longer
hear falling water or Christmas bells through
the pleasant night stillness, for the winter
storm howls through the pines and around
the mill, as if the evil ones had been exorcised
by the holy sound, and wailed in their agony
of impotent despair.

Little Gretchen lay in her little bed in
the mill-chamber on Christmas Eve long
ago. In all the mill-house there was not
one living creature but herself and the old
blackbird that hung in his wicker cage in
the kitchen below; for Hans, the miller,
was carousing with some of his boon
companions at the ale-house in the distant town,
and Fritz, his man, had saddled the old
horse, and jogged off as soon as his master's
back was turned; for he knew very well
that he was safe for that night. The
blackbird slept soundly, with his head
tucked warmly beneath his wing; Gurtha,
the wicked watchdog in the yard, lay dreaming
in her house, curled up out of the reach
of the drifting snow. Even the people of
the hamlet were a league off, hearing the
midnight mass in the great abbey church.
Only little Gretchen lay awake, with her
blue eyes full of tears, as she thought how
lonely she was. She had seen, from the mill
window, the neighbours all passing in their
holiday clothes—some in carts and some on
horses; and the mothers had their children
with them; even the little babies in their
arms going to the great church in the town.
Then she thought how fine it must be to
be going there, to see the lights, and hear
the chanting of the choristers, and smell
the incense, and watch the priests in their
purple and golden robes, grander than the
emperor himself. But above all, O, far
above! to kneel before the shrine of our
Lady with the Child, who held out his hands
so lovingly; and to say the prayer that her
mother had taught her, before she went to
heaven!

Her tears flowed fast when she thought
there would be no one to carry even her
name to the holy feet; and she said mournfully,
" Alas! When He shall see all the
neighbours there without me, He will be
angry, or, perhaps, He will forget me, and
He will not think of me for a whole year
long!" And she almost felt that she must
put on her little mantle, and run to present
herself, and ask Him to remember her; but
although she did not dread the darkness of
the road, or the wolves that lived in the
forest, she feared her father's anger. For
stern of brow and hard of speech was the
miller.

So little Gretchen had stood gazing out at
the whirling eddies of snow until long after
the last passer-by had gone, and she thought
as she watched the pure white flakes that
never seemed to touch the earth,
"Perhaps in those snow robes the good angels
fly to-night, and some of them will watch
beside our door until the bright sun shines
out to-morrow!" And she said, for she was
but a little child: "O Heaven birds! if to-
night you fly and perch upon the church-
roof, ask Him to bless Gretchen so far away! ' '
Then there was a pause for a moment, as if
they had been really waiting for her message,
and presently round and round, faster and
faster, they flew past the houses and above
the forest, towards the distant town. But
soon the white wings had also passed, and