The Christmas Child | Page 7

very early; and she 'll be thinking of it to-morrow. I'm sure
Rhoda 'ill remember, and think I'm going to look for Him."
"Ay, ay, Joan," answered the old man; "I'd never say nay to anything as
is done out o' love. Maybe Rhoda 'ill be thinking of it, and please God
it 'ill do her good. I'll be up early i' th' morning and light the lantern,
and see thee safe across the fold and hearken to thee singing the 'Heral'
angels.'"
There was neither frost nor snow this Christmas. The weather had been
as soft and mild as autumn, and there were still some pale monthly
roses blooming against the southern walls of the farm-house. Old
Nathan lighted Joan across the causeway and put the lantern into her
hand when they reached the door of the outer cow-shed. As she stood
alone on the low threshold of the farther shed, and looked up to the
black space above her, where the bay of the barn opened into it on her
left hand, she felt a little terrified. The light from her dim lantern could
not reach the roof, but she could see the piled-up straw rising high
above her, and the utter blackness beyond it.
Her own white, melancholy-looking face was lit up by the rays from
the perforated top of the lantern, which swung from her hand as she
lingered on the door-sill gazing forward into the dark shed. The thought
of old Nathan not far away gave her some courage, and, after a
timorous pause of a minute or two, her young, clear, yet tremulous
voice began to sing the Christmas Hymn:--
Hark! the herald angels sing, Glory to the new-born King; Peace on
earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.

All the other verses seemed to slip suddenly out of Joan's memory. She
heard something stirring in the stall before her, the straw rustled softly,
and there was a faint, slight sound of a gentle breathing. With her heart
beating fast she stole forward on tiptoe to the manger, well lined with
hay, and lifted up the lantern. It was no longer empty: there lay a child
asleep, a little babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes and cradled in the
manger!
No doubt was there in Joan's little heart, no question as to who the
sleeping child could be. All the little learning she had gained died away
when she saw the child. She had come to seek the babe whose birth the
angels had sung over, and she had found him. Without speech or
motion, scarcely breathing for very joy, she stood gazing at it. The little
head and small face, the tiny hands, filled her soul with awe and
tenderness. Very timidly she touched the soft cheek with the tip of her
finger--the warm, soft cheek--and the baby stirred a little. Then Joan,
hanging the lantern to the rack above the manger, knelt down by its
side to watch the quiet slumber of the welcome child.
Were the angels there, asked Joan of herself, unseen and unheard by
her, singing glory? And oh! where was Mary, His mother? and where
could Joseph be? She must take care of the sleeping baby till they came
back; and surely Aunt Priscilla would consent to have such guests as
these in her house.
But before very long she heard Nathan's voice calling her anxiously. He
wanted his lantern; and his mind was not quite easy as to whether it
was well for Joan to keep up a fancy like this. At the sound the baby
stirred, and its tiny features grew puckered up, as if it was about to cry.
Joan sprang up quickly yet quietly, and appeared in the doorway,
beckoning to old Nathan to keep still.
"Hush! hush!" she cried; "he is here sleeping, and you mustn't wake
him. But I don't know where Mary is or Joseph. There is nobody but
the baby. Oh, I am so happy! I am so happy!"
"What does Joan mean?" thought Nathan, stepping heavily yet gently
on into the inner shed, which he had filled with provender the day

before. Joan led him to the farther stall, and there, in a warm, soft nest
of hay, well wrapped up and sleeping soundly again, lay the baby. The
old man stood silently gazing at it till the slow tears trickled down his
grey and withered cheeks.
"God help us!" he sobbed at last; "poor little lost babe! Come on
Christmas mornin'! And where's thy poor, sorrowful mother? What can
we do for thee, Joan and me? Nobody to give thee a welcome but an
old man and a little child. But we'll love thee for the dear Lord's sake as
sent thee to us on Christmas mornin'. Ay, and, old