Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers and wild boars’ heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the chase and the cup of the woods.

Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons, and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It is Sisa’s son, Basilio.

“When your foot is well,” said the little boy, “you will go with us to the top of the mountain and drink deer’s blood and lemon juice; then you’ll grow fat; then I’ll show you how to jump from one rock to another, over the torrent.”

Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at the sun, which was shining splendidly.

“Sell these brooms, Lucia,” said the grandfather to the young girl, “and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas.”

“Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!” cried the little boy.

“And what do you want?” the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got up and went to the old man.

“SeÑor,” he said, “have I been ill more than a month?”

“Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have passed. We thought you were going to die——”

“May God reward you; we are very poor,” said Basilio; “but as to-day is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me.”

“But, son, you aren’t well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when they come from the forest.”

“You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night—a son!”

The grandfather felt his eyes grow dim.

“You are as sensible as an old man! Go, find your mother, give her her present! Go, my son. God and the Lord Jesus go with you!”

“What, you’re not going to stay and see my fire-crackers?” said the little boy.

“I want you to play hide and seek!” pouted the little girl; “nothing else is so much fun.”

Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.

“I shall come back soon,” he said, “and bring my little brother; then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia.”

“Don’t forget us!” said the old man, “and come back when you are well.” The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo over the rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo with her basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched them both out of sight.

The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego were trembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo was sad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the houses announcing the joyful time, as in other years.

At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talking with Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.

“You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment,” Captain Basilio was saying to his guest. “They’ve burned your books, that’s true; but others have fared worse.”

A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant, her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.

“Sisa?” asked Don Filipo, in surprise. “I thought she was with a physician.”

Captain Basilio smiled bitterly.

“The doctor feared he might be taken for a friend of Don CrisÓstomo’s, so he drove her out!”

“What else has happened since I went away? I know we have a new curate and a new alfÉrez——”

“Well, the head sacristan was found dead, hung in the garret of his house. And old Tasio is dead. They buried him in the Chinese cemetery.”

“Poor Don Astasio!” sighed Don Filipo. “And his books?”

“The devout thought it would be pleasing to God if they should burn them; nothing escaped, not even the works of Cicero. The gobernadorcillo was no check whatsoever.”

They were both silent. At that moment, the melancholy song of Sisa was heard. A child passed, limping, and running toward the place from which the song came; it was Basilio. The little fellow had found his home deserted and in ruins. He had been told about his mother; of Crispin he had not heard a word. He had dried his tears, smothered his grief, and without resting, started out to find Sisa.

She had come to the house of the new alfÉrez. As usual, a sentinel was pacing up and down. When she saw the soldier, she took to flight, and ran as only a wild thing can. Basilio saw her, and fearing to lose sight of her, forgot his wounded foot, and followed in hot pursuit. Dogs barked, geese cackled, windows opened here and there, to give passage to the heads of the curious; others banged to, from fear of a new night of trouble. At this rate, the runners were soon outside the pueblo, and Sisa began to moderate her speed. There was a long distance between her and her pursuer.

“Mother!” he cried, when he could distinguish her.

No sooner did Sisa hear the voice than she again began to run madly.

“Mother, it’s I,” cried the child in despair. Sisa paid no attention. The poor little fellow followed breathless. They were now on the border of the wood.

Bushes, thorny twigs, and the roots of trees hindered their progress. The child followed the vision of his mother, made clear now and then by the moon’s rays across the heavy foliage. They were in the mysterious wood of the family of Ibarra. Basilio often stumbled and fell, but he got up again, without feeling his hurts, or remembering his lameness. All his life was concentrated in his eyes, which never lost the beloved figure from view.

They crossed the brook, which was singing gently, and to his great surprise, Basilio saw his mother press through the thicket and enter the wooden door that closed the tomb of the old Spaniard. He tried to follow her, but the door was fast. Sisa was defending the entrance—holding the door closed with all her strength.

“Mother, it’s I, it’s I, Basilio, your son!” cried the child, falling from fatigue. But Sisa would not budge. Her feet braced against the ground, she offered an energetic resistance. Basilio examined the wall, but could not scale it. Then he made the tour of the grave. He saw a branch of the great tree, crossed by a branch of another. He began to climb, and his filial love did miracles. He went from branch to branch, and came over the tomb at last.

The noise he made in the branches startled Sisa. She turned and would have fled, but her son, letting himself drop from the tree, seized her in his arms and covered her with kisses; then, worn out, he fainted away.

Sisa saw his forehead bathed in blood. She bent over him, and her eyes, almost out of their sockets, were fixed on his face, which stirred the sleeping cells of her brain. Then something like a spark flashed through them. Sisa recognized her son, and with a cry fell on his senseless body, pressing it to her heart, kissing him and weeping. Then mother and son were both motionless.

When Basilio came to himself, he found his mother without consciousness. He called her, lavished tender names on her, and seeing she did not wake, ran for water and sprinkled her pale face. But the eyes remained closed. In terror, Basilio put his ear to her heart, but her heart no longer beat. The poor child embraced the dead body of his mother, weeping bitterly.

On this night of joy for so many children, who, by the warm hearth, celebrate the feast which recalls the first loving look Heaven gave to earth; on this night when all good Christian families eat, laugh, and dance, ’mid love and kisses; on this night which, for the children of cold countries, is magical with its Christmas trees, Basilio sits in solitude and grief. Who knows? Perhaps around the hearth of the silent Father Salvi are children playing; perhaps they are singing: