Two hours have passed. It is nine o'clock. I have money; where shall I take supper? My friends, more fortunate than I, will smother their loneliness in the clamor of an orgy. "Night is of wine," they said to me only a few moments ago; but I would not be of them. It has been some time now since I crossed this red sea of youth dry-footed.

"Night is of tears," I said to them.

Those who compose our social gatherings are at the theatre. The people of Madrid celebrate the Nativity of our Lord by listening to the ranting of actors.

A few homes in which I am almost a stranger have offered me alms out of their domestic warmth in the form of an invitation to dinner,-for the old-fashioned supper has gone out of style. But I would not accept. That is not what I want. What I long for is the Paschal feast, the Christmas Eve supper, my home, my relatives, my traditions, my memories, the former joys of my soul, the religion that was taught me when I was a child.

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