ned the door to enter, she caught the
distant chorus of fresh young voices singing in a neighboring square:--

"Angels from the realms of glory,
Wing your flight o'er all the earth."

When she took her place behind the curtain she was trembling a little, she
could not guess why. But now she watched with renewed eagerness. What was
to be the fate of the Christmas Angel? Would he fall into the right hands
and be hung upon some Christmas tree ere morning? Would he--

Miss Terry held her breath. A man was staggering along the street toward
her. He whistled noisily a vulgar song, as he reeled from curb to railing,
threatening to fall at every step. A drunken man on Christmas Eve! Miss
Terry felt a great loathing for him. He was at the foot of the steps now.
He was close upon the Angel. Would he see it, or would he tread upon it in
his disgusting blindness?

Yes--no! He saw the little pink image lying on the bricks, and with a lurch
forward bent to examine it. Miss Terry flattened her nose against the pane
eagerly. She expected to see him fall upon the Angel bodily. But no; he
righted himself with a whoop of drunken mirth.

"Angel!" she heard him croak with maudlin accent. "Pink Angel, begorrah!
What doin' 'ere, eh? Whoop! Go back to sky, Angel!" and lifting a brutal
foot he kicked the image into the street. Then with a shriek of laughter he
staggered away out of sight.

Miss Terry found herself trembling with indignation. The idea! He had
kicked the Christmas Angel,--the very Angel that Tom had hung on their
tree! It was sacrilege, or at least--Fiddlestick! Miss Terry's mind was
growing confused. She had a sudden impulse to rescue the toy from being
trampled into filthiness. The fire was better than that.

She hurried down the steps into the street, forgetting her shawl. She
sought in the snow and snatched the pink morsel to safety. Straight to the
fire she carried it, and once more held it to the flames. But again she
found it impossible to burn the thing. Once, twice, she tried. But each
time something seemed to clutch back her wrist. At last she shrugged
impatiently and laid the Angel on the mantelpiece beside the square old
marble clock, which marked the hour of half-past eight.

"Well, I won't burn it to-night," she reflected. "Somehow, I can't do it
just now. I don't see what has got into me! But to-morrow I will. Yes,
to-morrow I will."

She sat down in the armchair and fumbled in the old play box for