CHAPTER XV.
SAINT NICHOLAS.
"The house among the olive trees at the base of yonder hill—whose is it, friend?" enquired a traveller of a pagan whom he met.
"The hospitable home of Tharsos and Pathema," was the reply.
"Thanks be to God!" said the traveller, passing on.
"Who are these two men that sit together in the portico?" asked he of a Christian as he came up in front of the house.
"Tharsos, the owner of the mansion, and Orestes, a shepherd from the valley beyond."
"They speak as brothers," said the traveller, raising his eyebrows and passing by.
Going to a side door, he was about to knock when a woman approached from behind luxuriant vines, with a twig of olive blossoms in her hand. She walked towards him with quiet grace, her countenance inspiring all respect and trust.
Bowing low, the traveller said—"My name is Timon. I have travelled far, and am footsore and in want."
"Enter in," said Pathema kindly, "sit at yonder table with the rest, and thou shalt have water to wash thy feet."
Going in, the ex-detective was met by a pretty boy with golden hair and deep blue eyes, the first-born son of Tharsos and Pathema. The child took a gentle hold of his sun-brown hand to lead him to food and rest. The weary stranger clasped the tender fingers, and looking down into the trusting, thoughtful face, he said—-
"Child of a noble mother, thou hast made me glad."
"Come," said the little one lovingly, "come."
"Tell me thy name, darling."
"My name is Nicholas," replied the boy.
"Thou art a little saint," rejoined the stranger hopefully, "and thou shalt gladden many."
Wonderful boy of long ago!
Come now and tell—
As aged man, with beard of snow
And hair all white, what gave thy name,
Adown the years, the glow of fame?
Explain thy spell
O'er countless children waiting thee
In varied home,—
Afar inland, beside the sea,
In lonely cot, and crowded town,—
Awatching oft in midnight gown,
For thee to come.
Wert thou a selfish, cunning boy?
Ah no, ah no!
Tradition findeth no alloy
In thy make-up, but giveth thee
A generous heart, from baseness free,
Alike the snow.
White out and in, a giver pure,
With heart all warm,—
This! is thy spell, direct and sure,
O'er boy and girl; who think it good
To paint thy face in comic mood—
It does no harm.
But clothed in loving, reverent mien
Tradition gives—
Thou art, in this, by seniors seen,
To meet the life of one who was
The mother of Saint Nicholas:
In thee she lives.