uarrel at Christmas--not
with Billy Sewall preaching peace on earth, good will to men, to them.
--Jessica, please hand me that wire--and come and hold this wreath a
minute, will you?"

"Nobody expects Marian to be on any side but the other one," consolingly
whispered merry-faced Jessica, Edson's wife--lucky fellow!--as she held
the wreath for Nan to affix the wire.

"What's that about Sewall?" Oliver inquired. "I hadn't heard of that.
You don't mean to say Sewell's coming up for this service?"

"Of course he is. Margaret telephoned him this morning, and he said he'd
never had a Christmas present equal to this one. He said it interested
him a lot more than his morning service in town, and he'd be up, loaded.
Isn't that fine of Billy?" Nan beamed triumphantly at her oldest
brother, over her holly wreath.

"That puts a different light on it." And Mr. Oliver Fernald, president
of the great city bank of which Sam Burnett was cashier, got promptly
down on the knees of his freshly pressed trousers, and proceeded to tack
the frazzled edge of the pulpit stair-carpet with interest and skill.
That stair-carpet had been tacked by a good many people before him,
but doubtless it had never been stretched into place by a man whose
eye-glasses sat astride of a nose of the impressive, presidential mould
of this one.

"Do I understand that you mean to attempt music?" Mrs. Oliver seemed
grieved at the thought. "There are several good voices in the family,
of course, but you haven't had time to practise any Christmas music
together. You will have merely to sing hymns."

"Fortunately, some of the old hymns are Christmas music, of the most
exquisite sort," began Nan, trying hard to keep her temper--a feat which
was apt to give her trouble when Marian was about. But, at the moment,
as if to help her, up in the old organ-loft, at the back of the church,
Margaret began to sing. Everybody looked up in delight, for Margaret's
voice was the pride of the family, and with reason. Somebody was at the
organ--the little reed organ. It proved to be Carolyn--Mrs. Charles
Wetmore. For a moment the notes rose harmoniously. Then came an
interval--and the organ wailed. There was a shout of protest, from
the top of Guy's step-ladder:

"Cut it out--cut out the steam calliope!--unless you want a burlesque.
That organ hasn't been tuned since the deluge--and they didn't get all
the water out then."

"I won't hit that key again," called Carolyn. "Listen,