ing steps. In another moment he was by her side.

"The senora is not here," said Louisita, "but I am going to take 'el nino,' for I know she won't mind. But you must write a note, Ramon, and tell her we have taken Jose Cristiano to the 'poseda' to be a love-gift."

Arrived at the adobe, with much labor on the boy's part, and many instructions from Louisita, the note was written and pinned to the wooden wall over the low trundle-bed; then Ramon lifted the heavy baby in his strong arms, and the little cavalcade began the descent of the hill.

"Isn't it exciting?" said Louisita. "I feel just as if we were really the Blessed 'Madre' and St. Joseph, with 'El Nino Dios,' don't you, Ramon?"

"Hadn't thought of it," answered the boy, "but I wish we had brought your burro, Louisita, so you and ‘el nino' could ride. He's a pretty heavy one to carry."

"It's not far," said the little "madre," consolingly. "And we only give lovegifts once a year, Ramon."

Jose Cristiano was getting sleepy, and presently his head dropped on Ramon's shoulder and he was in the land of dreams.

Softly the pair stole up to the back of of the hacienda. Old Carolina, in the kitchen, caught sight of them in the fast. waning light, and marked a white bundle in Ramon's arms; but they encountered no one else, and presently they were safely in the house and speeding down the corridor. Now they were in the room set apart and decorated for the festivities, and as Louisita removed the wax Christ Child from the manger, the youthful Joseph laid the love-gift in the spot left vacant, relaxing his tired arms of their burden. 'El nino' was in a profound sleep, and softly Louisita covered him with the little white blanket she had taken care to bring with herthen the boy and girl left the room, and

Down the corridor came a long line of young people, singing the Christmas. hymn. At the head of the procession walked Juanita and her brother Roberto, while at the end of the line came the master of the house, his gentle old mother, and their guests. Beyond these appeared all the household servants, ending up with the fat Carolina and her husband, Pancho.

Every one was dressed for the great "fiesta," the winding up of the nine days' "poseda," and every one was anxious to see the grotto; for had not Louisita thrown out hints that there was to be a wonderful surprise!

Now they were at the door at last; in answer to their knock it flew open as if by magic; and in another moment all had filed in and placed themselves around the room, some here, some there, all talking in subdued tones and admiring the artistic appearance of the

scene.

Very pretty was the arrangement of the manger, the dresses of the youthful Mary and Joseph, the soft light from the candles, and the lifelike figures of the sheep surrounding the stall. Clear and sweet rose the voices of the children as they commenced the cradle-song to "El Nino." It was the last act before the fun and merriment began.

"A la rorro, Nino," they sang and then suddenly a hush fell on the crowd; for oh! wonder of wonders, the white blanket that covered the little "Nino" began to move, one naked little arm flew out, followed by a pink foot and sturdy

leg, and from the depths of the manger came a series of soft, enchanting sounds. Jose Cristiano was showing his appreciation of the wonderful scene!

With her white hood falling over her dark curls, and an expression of rapture and joy on her eager, brilliant little face, the young "Madre" arose, and lifting the little "Nacimiento" in her arms, carried him across the room and held him out to her astonished father.

"My Christmas present to you, 'padre,'" she said. "He is the love-gift. See how beautiful he is, and 'El bueno Dios' means him to be your son.. With this love-gift, 'padre,' you will have all that money you could not have with me."

The crowd seemed struck dumb as the clear child voice floated through the room-all but Jose Cristiano. Those twinkling lights and gold and silver bells that hung just above his head enchanted him and then he knew he was safe in those strong little arms that held him so tight, so he laughed aloud, and hearing that rippling laughter, a low murmur ran through the crowd.

Only for a moment. There was a noise in the corridor, a sound of voices, and the door was flung open to admit Louisita's Uncle Raphael, and behind him was the senora, very pale and wild, and keeping close to her, her young brother, Victor.

Of course the senora would comeLouisita had expected that. But she was not prepared for what followed. It was "el padre," her own father, who, with a cry, sprang forward and knelt at the lovely senora's feet.

"Marguerita," he was saying, "you have come back. Can you forgive me now?"

In a second the kind Uncle Rafael had cleared the room of every one but herself and "el nino," and this strange father and the beautiful senora; and then and then-it was all most wonderful they were weeping in each

other's arms and talking about strange things.

The senora was saying how she and Victor heard a cry for help from the quarry, where an old Mexican had fallen and had been badly hurt. She had only left "el nino" for about half an hour; but when she got back he was gone. She had found Ramon's note, and had come at once for her child. Now she would go away and leave "el padre" in peace. But the "padre," with a light shining in his eyes such as Louisita had never seen, said that now he could never let her go, and that everything was all his fault, and then "el nino's" mother said it was all hers.

"I was proud," she said. "I could not bear the sting of knowing I had not given you what you wanted; and then I lived in such dread of a second disappointment, that I went away, and our little son was born under my father's roof."

"On Christmas day," whispered Louisita to little Jose Cristiano. "El nino" nodded and looked wise. Indeed, it was very wonderful; but after all only a part of that vast cloud country in which he lived, where all was new and strange.

But suddenly the father and mother remembered their children, and smiling through her tears, the lovely senora came toward them, and lifting little Jose in her arms, held him up to his delighted father.

"Our love-gift," she said. "Louisita's and mine. Take him, Alfonso."

Was it through a mist of tears that Louisita saw "el nino" in her father's arms? Here was the end of all worry and trouble about being a girl! And now tender arms were encircling her, and the sweetest voice spoke her name.

"Carissima," it said, "my brave little girl! It is you who have made our Christmas happy-you who have given us our love-gift. You must love me now, my child, my little daughter; for I am your mother.”

A

MONG the Gothic cathedrals

bequeathed to France by the Middle Ages, that of Notre Dame of Paris does not, either in point of size or beauty, take a foremost place. Amiens, Chartres, Rheims, and even some of the Norman churches, like St. Ouen at Rouen, have an equal claim to our admiration, and had that strange, unfinished fragment, the Cathedral of Beauvais, been completed, it might possibly, at any rate in point of size, have outshone the rest.

But as regards historical and romantic associations, no church in France can compete with this one, whose destiny has been, for the last eight hundred years, closely interwoven with that of the gay, restless city over which its twin towers still keep guard. All the political events that since medieval times have shaken the capital of France to its very foundations have been echoed within this stately pile. It has witnessed the pomps of the ancient French monarchy and the sudden and dazzling splendors of Napoleon's victorious reign, royal baptisms and imperial marriages, but, strange to say, a pathetic element mingles with these historical reminiscences, and over each splendid pageant hangs a foreboding of coming sorrow.

The princely children baptized, within the walls of Notre Dame have, one and all, died in exile; the English king who was crowned there in past times was among the most unfortunate of sovereigns, and we know how the two Napoleons' dream of power ended in defeat and humiliation. No wonder that the words of the Psalmist, "Vanitas Vanitatum," haunt us as we pace the solemn aisles and recall the scenes that once

filled the now silent church with brightness, color and sound.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame was begun in 1163 under the government of Bishop Maurice de Sully, who by birth a peasant, was an exemplary pastor, a wise and generous ruler. It was built on the island, which may be regarded as the cradle and heart of ancient Paris. It is difficult for the twentieth-century tourist who sees the Notre Dame of today, standing in true majesty on its spacious "parvis," to imagine the aspect of the island eight hundred years ago, when on a comparatively narrow space were crowded together seven churches, ten streets, a hospital, a multitude of houses, schools that were famous and the episcopal palace of the Bishop of Paris. Two churches, St. Stephen and an older Notre Dame, were thrown down to make room for the new cathedral, the first stone of which was laid by Pope Alexander III, who was then an exile in France. The work that Maurice de Sully began was continued by his successors, and in the course of less than two centuries the cathedral was, to all intents and purposes, completed. We know that the chief doorway was achieved in 1223, that the side chapels were built in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and that the citizens of Paris generously contributed to the decoration of their basilica. Thus the wealthy corporation of the goldsmiths was accustomed to present Notre Dame with an annual gift of valuegenerally a picture or a piece of church plate. At a much later date, in the eighteenth century, several important changes were made in the decoration of the church, but as a rule, those who di

plate.

rected them displayed a sad lack of artistic taste and also of respect for the past. A painter on glass, Pierre Levieil, systematically destroyed the old stained windows of the nave and choir, some of which belonged to the twelfth century, and replaced them by plain white glass with a border of fleur-de-lis. The tombstones that paved the church, many of which marked the graves of illustrious persons, were ruthlessly torn up and a commonplace pavement was laid down, more symmetrical to the eye, but wanting in historical interest.

Worse was yet to come: in 1793, the stone figures over the doorways were partly destroyed by the Revolutionists and the despoiled and desecrated cathedral became the temple of the Goddess of Reason.

Only in 1845 did the French Government take in hand the restoration of the time-honored shrine, whose past history was so closely linked with the destinies of France. It was an epoch when the writings of M. de Montalembert and his friend, M. Rio, brought about an awakening of artistic and religious feeling among educated Frenchmen. Gothic cathedrals were no longer considered, as they had been a century before, to be the barbarous outcome of the dark ages of history. The work was, therefore, carried on in a safer spirit and on happier lines than the tasteless restorations for which the eighteenth century is responsible. It was begun under Louis Philippe and completed under Napoleon III by Viollet le Duc, and though certain details, like the paintings of the chapels, are open to criticism, as a whole the restoration may be considered to have been successfully accomplished.

Notre Dame has the shape of a Latin. cross; it possesses two square towers, six doorways, of unequal richness, thirty-seven chapels and one hundred and thirteen windows. Its front covers

a space of forty metres and its entire length is one hundred and thirty metres.

The central doorway is a thing of beauty. Its majestic proportions are no less striking than the delicacy of its ornaments and the ingenious and graceful arrangement of the thousand details that combine to form a perfect picture. "There are few finer bits of architecture than this * * * symphony in stone," says Victor Hugo, and an eminent French archeologist who, some forty years ago, was an undisputed authority on such matters, the Baron de Guilhermy, tells us that "this splendid doorway was evidently conceived and executed by the same man"-an assertion that is abundantly proved by the unity of the design and ornamentation. Who was the mortal whose genius bequeathed so noble a work to his country? His name is unknown, like those of most of the medieval builders. These devout, earnest, disinterested artists cared nothing for human applause; the simple faith that filled their hearts found expression in the glorious works of their hands, but no thought of mundane honor haunted their minds as, slowly and lovingly, with prayerful hearts, they accomplished their lifelong task.

The leading subject of the central doorway is the Last Judgment. On either side of the central figure of Christ are the Christian virtues, accompanied, as a contrast, by the opposite vices. Many of the latter figures display the quaint humor that characterizes the medieval artists, and the groups representing the demons and the lost souls have a tragical power of expression.

On the contrary, the martyrs, saints and virgins are calmly majestic in their somewhat stiff serenity. In former days, these figures were, it appears, colored and gilded. An Armenian bishop who visited Paris at the end of the fifteenth century gives an enthusiastic description of Notre Dame; he speaks of the