n the room, and crowns the whole,"
said Douglas, rising and standing by his daughter's side. "It was a
stroke of genius to place it there, Anne."

"Was it?" said the girl, her face flushing with pleasure. "But I was
thinking only of Miss Lois."

"I am afraid you were," said Douglas, with his shadowy smile.

The rough walls and beams of the chapel were decorated with fine
spray-like lines of evergreen, all pointing toward the chancel; there
was not a solid spot upon which the eye could rest, no upright branches
in the corners, no massed bunches over the windows, no stars of
Bethlehem, anchors, or nondescript Greek letters; the whole chapel was
simply outlined in light feathery lines of green, which reached the
chancel, entered it, played about its walls, and finally came together
under the one massive wreath whose even circle and thick foliage held
them all firmly in place, and ended their wanderings in a restful quiet
strength. While the two stood gazing, the lemon-colored light faded, and
almost immediately it was night; the red glow shining out under the
doors of the large stoves alone illuminated the room, which grew into a
shadowy place, the aromatic fragrance of the evergreens filling the warm
air pungently, more perceptible, as fragrance always is, in the
darkness. William Douglas turned to the organ again, and began playing
the music of an old vigil.

"The bugle sounded long ago, father," said Anne. "It is quite dark now,
and very cold; I know by the crackling noise the men's feet make across
the parade-ground."

But the father played on. "Come here, daughter," he said; "listen to
this waiting, watching, praying music. Do you not see the old monks in
the cloisters telling the hours through the long night, waiting for the
dawn, the dawn of Christmas? Look round you; see this dim chapel, the
air filled with fragrance like incense. These far-off chords, now; might
they not be the angels, singing over the parapet of heaven?"

Anne stood by her father's side, and listened. "Yes," she said, "I can
imagine it. And yet I could imagine it a great deal better if I did not
know where every bench was, and every darn in the chancel carpet, and
every mended pane in the windows. I am sorry I am so dull, father."

"Not dull, but unawakened."

"And when shall I waken?" pursued the girl, accustomed to carrying on
long conversations with this dreaming father, whom she loved devotedly.

"God knows! May He be with you at yo