hristmas night. When we left the Marr house, he had
boldly said to Felicity, "May I see you home?" And Felicity, much to our
amazement, had taken his arm and marched off with him. The primness
of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's hoot of
derision. As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire to
ask the Story Girl if I might see HER home; but I could not screw my
courage to the sticking point. How I envied Peter his easy, insouciant
manner! I could not emulate him, so Dan and Felix and Cecily and the
Story Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling a little closer
together as we went through James Frewen's woods--for there are strange
harps in a fir grove, and who shall say what fingers sweep them? Mighty
and sonorous was the music above our heads as the winds of the night
stirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit sky. Perhaps it was
that aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story Girl a legend of elder
days.

"I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last night,"
she said. "It was called 'The Christmas Harp.' Would you like to hear
it? It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road."

"There isn't anything about--about ghosts in it, is there?" said Cecily
timidly.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't tell a ghost story here for anything. I'd frighten
myself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who saw the
angels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth, and he loved
music with all his heart, and he longed to be able to express the melody
that was in his soul. But he could not; he had a harp and he often tried
to play on it; but his clumsy fingers only made such discord that
his companions laughed at him and mocked him, and called him a madman
because he would not give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself,
with his arms about his harp, looking up into the sky, while they
gathered around their fire and told tales to wile away their long night
vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the thoughts
that came out of the great silence were far sweeter than their mirth;
and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left his lips as a
prayer, that some day he might be able to express those thoughts in
music to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On the first Christmas night
he was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It was chill and
dark, and all, except him, were glad to gather around the fire. He sat,
as usu