But it was not the little bronze boy that Roger Poole saw. It was
another boy--himself--singing in a dim church in a big city, and his
soul was in the words. And when he knelt to pray, it seemed to him
that the whole world prayed. He was bathed in reverence. In his
boyish soul there was no hint of unbelief--no doubt of the divine
mystery.

He saw himself again in a church. And now it was he who spoke to the
people of the Shepherds and the Star. And he knew that he was making
them believe. That he was bringing to them the assurance which
possessed his own soul--and again there were candles on the altar, and
again he sang, and the choir boys sang, and the song was the one that
Mary Ballard was singing----

He saw himself once more in a church. But this time there was no
singing. There were no candles, no light except such as came faintly
through the leaded panes. He was alone in the dimness, and he stood in
the pulpit and looked around at the empty pews. Then the light went
out behind the windows, and he knelt in the darkness; but not to pray.
His head was hidden in his arms. Since then he had never shed a tear,
and he had never gone to church.

* * * * * *

Mary's song was followed by carols in which the other voices
joined--Porter's and Barry's and Leila's; General Dick's breathy tenor,
Aunt Isabelle's quaver, Aunt Frances' dominant note--with Susan Jenks
and the colored maid who helped her on such occasions, piping up like
two melodious blackbirds in the hall.

Then General Dick played Santa Claus, handing out the parcels with
felicitous little speeches.

Constance had sent a big box from London. There were fads and
fripperies from Grace Clendenning in Paris, while Aunt Frances had
evidently raided Fifth Avenue and had brought away its treasures.

"It looks like a French shop," said Leila, happy in her own gifts of
gloves and silk stockings and slipper buckles and beads, and the
crowning bliss of a little pearl heart from Barry.

Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds
and emeralds.

Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty. "It's a
genuine antique?"

He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation.

Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's. She belonged
to an old French family. My grandfather met her when he was in the
diplomatic service. He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my