“‘Thy father sleeps,’ said the little Master, ‘and it is well that it is so; for that I love thee Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in my Father’s Kingdom, I would show thee the glories of my birthright.’
“Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than the light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that hill-side. The heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the earth. More wondrous still, the stars, falling from their places in the sky, clustered upon the old olive-tree, and swung hither and thither like colored lanterns. The flowers of the hill-side all awakened, and they, too, danced and sang. The angels, coming hither, hung gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old olive, where swung the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I shall never see again. When Dimas heard and saw these things he fell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the little Master’s garment, he kissed it.
“‘Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,’ said the little Master; ‘but first must all things be fulfilled.’
“All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hill-side was still beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven.”
“Well, is that all?” asked the old clock.
“No,” said the moonbeam; “but I am nearly done. The years went on. Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean’s bosom, sometimes I scampered o’er a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child’s face. I heard the voices of Darkness and mothers’ lullabies and sick men’s prayers—and so the years went on.
“I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before,—though where I did not know,—and this voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice called ‘Dimas, Dimas!’ and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made answer.
“Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had seared their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and in the yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd’s son again.
“‘The Master!’ cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might see him that spake.
“‘O Dimas, how art thou changed!’ cried the Master, yet there was in his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.