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. End of Project Gutenberg's The Mother of St. Nicholas, by Grant Balfour