We waited until the mass was over and then, with our lighted candles, went down into the shadowy grotto. Myth and legend, superstitions weird and fantastic have gathered about all the sacred places. While these things mean little to the modern Christian, he is bound to respect the reverent belief in them held by many of his comrades in the faith. With confidence the guide tells of the hundreds of years the fire in the hidden place has burned, not once going out, just as it has burned in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. If, as one kneels and prays, holding his taper close to the opening, it is lighted by the unseen holy fire, rich blessings will come to him and those he loves. I shall never forget the thin, tired, sorrow-marked face of an Armenian woman whose taper, as she knelt murmuring prayers, suddenly caught the sacred flame. It was transformed. She went up the shadowy steps in a transport of joy. Nor shall I soon forget the face of a Russian woman as she swayed back and forth on her knees in an agony of prayer. When at last she rose she could not stand and a kindly attendant steadied her. He spoke to her in Russian and they talked softly for a moment. She was in Jerusalem on a pilgrimage when the war broke out. Her husband, her son, and a son-in-law were in the Russian army. Of them she had had no word. She had received a month since confirmation of the news of the death of her two daughters in prison. She could not go back to her home in the hot-bed of Bolshevism. She took a taper from the hand of a priest and went toward the place of the holy fire. [Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood_ “’Twas a humble birthplace, but oh, how much God gave to us that day!”] I was glad when we were in the fresh crisp air again, wandering through the streets of the little village, stopping for a few moments for coffee with a Syrian shopkeeper who wanted to sell us olive-wood beads with a beautiful carved cross as pendant. His son, a boy of twelve, spoke English. The father brought him out proudly. He attended a Quaker school for boys over in Ramallah and was having a holiday. The souvenirs offered for our inspection were poor tawdry things, but the faces of the salesmen were so eager that we could not disappoint them. Visitors had been exceedingly rare during the years of the war and curious friendly eyes followed us hopefully everywhere. There had been great excitement in the village that morning. An Indian prince who was a Christian had visited the church, had left a gift for the priests, had made purchases in all the little shops—his taper had been lighted by the holy fire. We were just about to go back to our carriage when, turning the corner abruptly, we were face to face with the young Britisher and his friend who had stood on the wall with us in the sunset the night before. He was pointing out over the hills. We smiled our recognition and asked if we too might hear of the coming of the army to Bethlehem.