The stars had faded and an early morning wind was blowing chill when at last the shepherds made their way out of the stable. The lamp, still swinging, burned pale in the dawn, but its faint light fell across the white face of a little boy who lurked in the doorway and whose cold hand clutched old Eli as he came exulting forth. "Praise God! Praise God for His mercy, justice, and truth! Praise--" Old Eli started at the cold touch, and looked down with eyes that glowed with an inward light. "Child, what doest thou here? Hinder me not. I go now to spread the good tidings--to praise and to glorify God." Ezra opened his dry lips. "Hast found Him?" he asked. "Is it the Messiah? Is it the Christ?" "Aye, child, 'tis as the angel said," answered Eli happily; "a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Come to bring peace on earth, our Saviour who is Christ the Lord, our long-looked-for Messiah! Glory to God in the highest! Glory!" Ezra heard no more. He had turned, and with the speed of an arrow from its bow was running up the steep road toward home. CHAPTER VII IN A MANGER The rising sun pushed through a bank of purple cloud and touched with long rosy beams the roof of Samuel the weaver's house. On the narrow parapet that bordered the roof walked a number of snowy pigeons, stepping delicately with heads raised and thrown back as if to enjoy the splendor and freshness of the early morning. In one corner of the roof lay a dark heap, heedless of sunlight, morning breeze, or bird, conscious only of the blackest misery, the deepest hopelessness that an eight-year-old heart can know. It was Naomi, who lay with hands clenched and face pressed against the cold stone, too heartsick for tears, wishing only in her wretchedness to creep away where she might be alone. Presently she stirred and lifted her head. Quite a different Naomi was this from the happy, generous child who had sacrificed her flower garden for the sake of an ailing lamb; not at all like the little girl who had set forth so joyfully for a day's pleasure in Jerusalem. Her little robe was wrinkled, her curls were tangled and rough, her face was pinched and pitiful. With her soft little fist she beat upon the roof in time with the rhythm of her words. "Did they think I could not hear?" she asked, speaking aloud in her fullness of heart. "Did Elisabeth, the wife of Amos, think that I was deaf as well as blind that she should say aloud, 'The child Naomi will never see again. There is no hope.'" "No hope! No hope! And perhaps I shall live to be as old as lame Enoch's grandmother lived to be. Who will care for me then? Who will give me shelter and food? Amos of Nazareth thought of that, too. I heard him, though he whispered low. 'She will be always a burden. It were better that she should die.' I heard him. He said those words. 'She will be always a burden. It were better that she should die.'"