CHRISTMAS Day was fine and brilliant, and Margaret awaked early. Her first thoughts were of home and distant friends. How well she knew that the dear father and mother, far away in Bassett, were thinking of her! As she rose and dressed, her heart was in full with the day’s sweet lesson of peace and , and when she knelt to say her morning prayers, she had a vague feeling that somehow this Christmas Day was a fuller and better one than any she had known before. She did not ask herself what was the new element in her life that made it so; it was too indefinite to be into a idea, but she felt conscious of its presence.  
General and Mrs. Gaston had a charming present for her when she went down to breakfast—a pair of gold of the most beautiful design and workmanship, and, as they seemed really pleased with the little presents that she had prepared for them, they had a very satisfactory beginning of their Christmas Day. After breakfast, she went to her room to write a letter home, and when that was done it was time to dress for church.
 
A little before eleven, as Miss Trevennon was in the deep bow-window of the drawing-room, equipped for the morning service, she heard a firm tread on the carpet behind her, and the next moment her somewhat little Prayer-book and Hymnal were slipped from her hand, and a marvellous tortoise-shell case, containing two beautiful little books, substituted for them. Margaret looked up quickly, and met Louis Gaston’s smiling eyes. He had searched New York over for the prettiest set he could find, and the result satisfied him.
 
“You will use these instead, will you not?” he said. “I wanted to give you some little thing.”
 
A flush of pleasure rose to Margaret’s face.
 
“I never saw anything half so lovely,” she said, handling them delightedly. “To think of your taking the trouble! I suspect my shabby little books offended your fastidious taste. I never dreamed of your remembering me in this kind way. I wish I had a present for you.”
 
“You might give me the old ones, perhaps,” he said, hesitatingly. “I should think it a return, for, as you say, they are worn and shabby, and that comes only from much using. How often they have been in your hands when your thoughts were away with God! I should like to keep them as a souvenir of you. May I, if you don’t particularly value them?”
 
“I should be only too glad for you to have them,” said Margaret, in a low voice. “Only I did not think you would care for anything like that. I asked Cousin Eugenia once what church your family belonged to, and she said you called yourselves Unitarians, but practically you were pagans. I couldn’t help hoping it was not really true—of you at least.”
 
“It isn’t in the least true of me,” he said, frowning, and looking so that Margaret was almost sorry she had spoken. “I would not, for anything, have you to suppose me an irreligious man, for it is not true, and I never even called myself a Unitarian. On the contrary, I was wishing a little while ago that I could go with you to church, so that you and I might keep this day holy together.”
 
“Do,” said Margaret, earnestly. “I have seen that you do not very often go. Go with us to-day, and make a resolve for better things in future. You would be so wise to do it.”
 
“I don’t think I will go this morning,” he said; “Eugenia has not room for me in the coupé. But will you let me take you to-night? We will walk, perhaps, if it fine, and the music will be lovely. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, they will get some good voice to sing the Cantique de Noël.”
 
“I love that so dearly,” Margaret said. “I shall be delighted to go with you.”
 
A little sigh rose, as she . This was one of Charley Somers’ favorites; she had taken pains to see that he sang it correctly, and his voice was trained to it beautifully.
 
Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Mrs. Gaston, who swept down the steps, elaborately arrayed in furs and velvets, and signified her readiness to set out.
 
Louis helped them into the carriage, and then turned away, saying he was going for a long walk. There was a look of gravity on his face that Margaret found herself recalling long .
 
The weather continued fine, and it proved quite mild enough for Louis and Margaret to walk to church in the evening. As they took their way along the gayly lighted streets, the young man turned suddenly and, looking down into her face, said:
 
“Do you know, I found a little pressed flower in my Hymnal, when I opened it this morning. Am I to keep it or return it to you?”
 
They were just under a gas-light, and Margaret, though she would not drop her eyes under his searching gaze, felt that she looked confused, as she said:
 
“No; you must give that back to me. I had forgotten it.”
 
It was a little flower that Charley Somers had put in there one evening, and she had never happened to remove it.
 
Mr. Gaston put his hand into his pocket and took out the book. It opened easily at the place, and he removed the flower, which was run into a little , and handed it to her as they entered the church vestibule.
 
“There were some initials under it,” he said.
 
“Oh, you can just rub those out. It doesn’t matter,” said Margaret, as she took the flower. She was about to crush and throw it from her, when a of pity for poor Charley checked her; so she opened her own Prayer-book and hurriedly slipped it among the leaves.
 
The service seemed wonderfully sweet to her that night. The and were and inspiring, and the sermon was simple, earnest and comforting. Louis found his places, and used his little book , and Margaret felt intuitively that this service was sweet to him also. As she glanced at him occasionally, she saw that his face looked serious and a little , now that she saw it in such perfect .
 
The sermon was ended now. The congregation had risen at its termination, and had settled again in their seats. The were walking up the to receive the alms-basins, when the organ began to a low . Louis and Margaret glanced at each other quickly. It was the Cantique de Noël.
 
Margaret leaned back in her seat, and restful, prepared for a deep of the pleasure before her, and at that moment a rich, sweet voice, high up in the behind her began:
 
“Oh, holy night——”
 
At the first note uttered by that voice the color rushed to Miss Trevennon’s cheeks, and she drew in her breath with a sound that was almost a .
 
And up on high the beautiful voice sang on:
 
“It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth.”
 
Higher and sweeter it soared—thrilling, rich, pathetic—and how familiar to the young girl’s ears was every and inflection! How often had that flood of melody been poured , for her ear alone, in the old at home!
 
It was Charley Somers, and she knew that he had seen her, and that he was singing to her now, no less than then. She listened, as in a dream, while the wistful, voice sang on. And now came the words:
 
“Fall on your knees! fall on your knees!”
 
They were somewhat indistinct, in their ............