sa Fraser, for he had a furious cold in his head. Not Maria Hill,
for though she hunted vigorously, high and low, for her handkerchief,
she was unable to locate it, and the front of her best black silk was
rapidly becoming shiny in spots--a fact calculated to upset anybody's
singing. Not even Miss Jane Pollock, for though no tears bedewed
her bright black eyes, there was a peculiar heaving quality in her
breathing, which suggested an impediment of some sort not to be readily
overcome. And it may be safely said that there was not a baker's dozen
of people left in the church who could have carried through the most
familiar hymn without breaking down.

So the four in the organ loft sang "Holy Night" again. They could not
have done a better thing. It is a holy night, indeed, when a messenger
from heaven comes down to this world of ours, though he take the form of
an old, old man with a peaceful face--but with eyes which can flash once
more with a light which is not of earth, and with lips upon which, for
one last mighty effort, has been laid a coal from off the altar of the
great High Priest.

_"Silent Night! Holy night!
Darkness flies, all is light!
Shepherds hear the angels sing--
Hallelujah! hail the king!
Jesus Christ is here!"_

X

George Tomlinson came heavily out of his pew. He had at last succeeded
in getting rid of the frog in his throat--or thought he had. It had
occurred to him that perhaps he ought to go up and speak to Elder
Blake--now sitting quietly in his chair, with William Sewall bending
over him--though he didn't know exactly what to say that would seem
adequate to the occasion.

At the same moment, Asa Fraser, still struggling with the cold in his
head, emerged from his pew, directly opposite. The two men did not look
at each other. But as they had been accustomed to allow their meeting
glances to clash with the cutting quality of implacable resentment, this
dropping of the eyes on the part of each might have been interpreted to
register a distinct advance toward peace.

As each stood momentarily at the opening of his pew, neither quite
determined whether to turn his face pulpit-ward or door-ward, Samuel
Burnett, coming eagerly up to them from the door-ward side, laid a
friendly hand on either black-clad arm. Whether Sam was inspired by
Heaven, or only by his own strong common-sense and knowledge of men,
will never be known. But he had been a popular man in North Estabrook,
ev