"Yes, yes; other Christmas Eves will come," thought I, as a child; and I dreamed of the future and built castles in the air. I saw myself the centre of a family, as yet unborn, in the second twilight of life when the flowers of love come to fruit. That storm of love and tears which wrecks me now was passed; my head was at rest in the lap of patience, crowned with the melancholy flowers of the last, true affections. I was a husband, a father, the support of a home, of a family. The flame of an unknown hearth sparkled in the distance, and in its vacillating light I saw strange beings that made me throb with pride; they were my sons. Then I wept, and I closed my eyes to prolong the vision of that reddish light and the prophetic apparition of the unborn. The grave was near; my locks were gray. But what of that? Would not half of my life remain in these children of love? Would not half of my soul remain with their mother? In vain did I try to recognize this wife, who was to share the twilight of my life. This future companion whom God holds for me sat with her back to me. I could not see her face. I looked for the reflection of her features in the faces of my sons, but the light from the hearth began to fail. When it was out I still saw her, because I felt the warmth of her in my soul. I murmured: "Christmas comes, Christmas--" And I was asleep, perhaps dead. [Illustration] I TAKE SUPPER WITH MY WIFE. From the French of GUSTAVE DROZ. It was Christmas Eve, and a devilishly cold night. The snow fell in great flakes, which the wind beat against the window-panes. The distant chimes reached us, confused and faint through the heavy, cottony atmosphere. The passers-by, muffled in their cloaks, glided along hurriedly, brushing by the walls of the houses, bending their heads before the wind. Wrapped in my dressing-gown, I smiled as I drummed on the window-pane, smiled at the passers-by, at the north wind and the snow, with the smile of a happy man who is in a warm room with his feet in a pair of flannel-lined slippers which sink into a thick, soft carpet. My wife sat in a corner of the hearth with a great piece of cloth before her which she cut and trimmed off; and every now and then she raised her eyes, which met mine. A new book lay on the mantel-piece awaiting me, and a log in the fireplace whistled as it spit out those little blue flames which tempt one to poke it. "There is nothing so stupid as a man trudging along in the snow. Is there?" said I. "Sh-h-h!" said my wife, laying down her scissors. Then she stroked her chin thoughtfully with her tapering pink fingers, slightly plump at the extremities, and looked over very carefully the pieces she had just cut out. "I say that it is absurd to go out into the cold when it is so easy to stay at home by the fire." "Sh-h-h!" "What the deuce are you doing that is so important?"