e sermon, by all means," quoth Sam Burnett. "Preach at 'em, when once
you've caught 'em. They'll enjoy that. We all do."

"But it's really a beautiful idea," said Margaret, her young face
catching the glow from Nan's. "I don't see why it couldn't be carried
out."

"Of course you don't." Guy spoke decidedly. "If people were all like
you there wouldn't be any quarrels. But unfortunately they are not. And
when I think of the Tomlinsons and the Frasers and the Hills and the
Pollocks, all going in at the same door for a Christmas Day service
under that roof--well----" he gave a soft, long whistle-- "it rather
strains my imagination. Not that they aren't all good people, you know.
Oh, yes! If they weren't, they'd knock each other down in the street and
have it over with--and a splendid thing it would be, too. But, I tell
you, it strains my imagination to----"

"Let it strain it. It's a good thing to exercise the imagination, now
and then. That's the way changes come. I don't think the idea's such
a bad one, myself." Sam Burnett spoke seriously, and Nan gave him
a grateful glance. She was pretty sure of Sam's backing, in most
reasonable things--and a substantial backing it was to have, too.

"Who would conduct such a service?" Mrs. Fernald asked thoughtfully.

"You couldn't get anybody out to church on Christmas morning," broke in
Mr. Fernald, chuckling. "Every mother's daughter of 'em will be basting
her Christmas turkey."

"Then have it Christmas evening. Why not? The day isn't over. Nobody
knows what to do Christmas evening--except go to dances--and there's
never a dance in North Estabrook. Whom can we get to lead it? Well----"
Nan paused, thinking it out. Her eyes roamed from Sam's to her fathers,
and from there on around the circle, while they all waited for her
to have an inspiration. Nobody else had one. Presently, as they
expected--for Nan was a resourceful young person--her face lighted
up again. She gazed at Margaret, smiling, and her idea seemed to
communicate itself to Guy's wife. Together they cried, in one breath:

"Billy!"

"Billy! Whoop-ee!" Guy threw back his head and roared with delight
at the notion. "The Reverend Billy, of St. Johns, coming up to North
Estabrook to take charge of a Christmas-evening service! Why, Billy'll
be dining in purple and fine linen at the home of one of his millionaire
parishioners--the Edgecombs', most likely. I think they adore him most.
_Billy!_ --Why don't you ask the B