t far angel-voices would
break its breathless hush, as once on the fields of Judea, to usher in
Christmas morn? A hush, in air, and earth, and sky, of waiting hope,
of a promised joy. Down there in the farm-window two human hearts had
given the joy a name; the hope throbbed into being; the hearts touching
each other beat in a slow, full chord of love as pure in God's eyes as
the song the angels sang, and as sure a promise of the Christ that is
to come. Forever,--not even death would part them; he knew that,
holding her closer, looking down into her face.

What a pale little face it was! Through the intensest heat of his
passion the sting touched him. Some instinct made her glance up at
him, with a keen insight, seeing the morbid gloom that was the man's
sin, in his face. She lifted her head from his breast, and when he
stooped to touch her lips, shook herself free, laughing carelessly.
Alas, Stephen Holmes! you will have little time for morbid questionings
in those years to come: her cheerful work has begun: no more
self-devouring reveries: your very pauses of silent content and love
will be rare and well-earned. No more tranced raptures for
to-night,--let to-morrow bring what it would.

"You do not seem to find your purer self altogether perfect?" she
demanded. "I think the pale skin hurts your artistic eye, or the
frozen eyes,--which is it?"

"They have thawed into brilliant fire,--something looks at me
half-yielding and half-defiant,--you know that, you vain child! But,
Margret, nothing can atone"----

He stopped.

"Yes, stop. That is right, Stephen. Remorse grows maudlin when it
goes into words," laughing again at his astounded look.

He took her hand,--a dewy, healthy hand,--the very touch of it meant
action and life.

"What if I say, then," he said, earnestly, "that I do not find my angel
perfect, be the fault mine or hers? The child Margret, with her sudden
tears, and laughter, and angry heats, is gone,--I killed her, I
think,--gone long ago. I will not take in place of her this worn, pale
ghost, who wears clothes as chilly as if she came from the dead, and
stands alone, as ghosts do."

She stood a little way off, her great brown eyes flashing with tears.
It was so strange a joy to find herself cared for, when she had
believed she was old and hard: the very idle jesting made her youth and
happiness real to her. Holmes saw that with his quick tact. He flung
playfully a crimson shawl that l