A DOG OF FLANDERS. 167

On the morrow, by the chancel of
the cathedral, the people of Antwerp
found them both. They were both
dead: the cold of the night had fro-
zen into stillness alike the young life
and the old. When the Christmas
morning broke and the priests came
to the temple, they saw them lying
thus on the stones together. Above,
the veils were drawn back from the
great visions of Rubens, and the
fresh rays of the sunrise touched
the thorn-crowned head of the Christ.

As the day grew on there came an
old, hard-featured man who wept as
women weep. “I was cruel to the
lad,” he muttered, ‘‘and now I would
have made amends,— yea, to the half
of my substance,—and he should
have been to me as a son.”