The church was filled. It had never looked handsomer. The rival
factions had vied with each other in decorating it. Spruce and hemlock
sprouted everywhere, and garlands of ground-ivy festooned walls and
chancel. The delicious odor of balsam and of burning wax-candles was
in the air. The people were all there in their Sunday clothes and the
old minister in the pulpit; but the Sunday feeling was not there.
Something was not right. Deacon Pratt's pew alone of them all was
empty, and the congregation cast wistful glances at it, some secretly
behind their hymn-books, others openly and sorrowfully. What the
doctor had said in the afternoon had got out. He himself had told Mrs.
Mills that it was doubtful if the deacon's wife got around, and it sat
heavily upon the conscience of the people.

The opening hymns were sung; the Merritts, late as usual, had taken
their seats. The minister took up the Book to read the Christmas
gospel from the second chapter of Luke. He had been there longer than
most of those who were in the church to-night could remember, had
grown old with the people, had loved them as the shepherd who is
answerable to the Master for his flock. Their griefs and their
troubles were his. If he could not ward them off, he could suffer with
them. His voice trembled a little as he read of the tidings of great
joy. Perhaps it was age; but it grew firmer as he proceeded toward the
end:--

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly
host praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on
earth peace, good-will toward men.'"

The old minister closed the Book and looked out over the congregation.
He looked long and yearningly, and twice he cleared his throat, only
to repeat, "on earth peace, good-will toward men." The people settled
back in their seats, uneasily; they strangely avoided the eye of their
pastor. It rested in its slow survey of the flock upon Deacon Pratt's
empty pew. And at that moment a strange thing occurred.

Why it should seem strange was, perhaps, not the least strange part of
it. Jack had come in alone before. He knew the trick of the
door-latch, and had often opened it unaided. He was in the habit of
attending the church with the folks; there was no reason why they
should not expect him, unless they knew of one themselves. But somehow
the click of the latch went clear through the congregation as the
heavenly message of good-will had not. All eyes were turned upon