Helen rises, and makes her way to the door, closely followed by Guy. "I am going to say good-night to Aunt Helen," she whispers, her eyes drooping shyly under the steadfast gaze he bends upon her. "I will wait for you here, dear," he says, and takes her hand in his, but she blushes so painfully he lets it drop again. "Foolish little woman," he sighs to himself. "Shall I ever really possess her heart?" In a few moments she rejoins him, and Guy puts his arm about her, and leads her into the music room. No lamps are lighted, but the window-shades are up, and the moon's soft rays shine through the panes, illumining mysteriously the great empty room. Far away, across the snowclad landscape, the slender spire of St. Andrew's points heavenward, and through the windows of the church shines the red glow of a light within. The scene is one of infinite peace and beauty, and the magic of the hour casts its spell over Helen and her lover, as speechless, motionless, they stand within the recess of the window, gazing out at the marvelous beauty of the night. By and by, Helen moves a little closer to her companion. "I have something to tell you, Guy," she murmurs, "and I haven't the courage to say it." The old doubt, not yet dispelled, pales Guy's face. "Don't tell me you are going to send me from you again, Helen." The girl's heart throbs at the pain in his voice: "No, no, dear. I want to tell you something so different. I love you, Guy," her voice dropping to a whisper. "Please never leave me again." He holds her to his heart with a love the deeper for all the pain and waiting, finding a heaven in the sweet lips which meet his so frankly. And even as they stand there the bell of St. Andrew's, solemnly tolling the midnight hour, ushers in the glad Christmas tide. "Helen," says Eleanor's voice from the doorway, "may we all come in? We think it would be so sweet if you would play our Christmas hymn on the organ and let us sing it together." Helen pushes back the curtain, and steps forward, an expression of perfect rest on her gentle face. "Yes, indeed, I think it is a lovely idea." Guy opens the organ. Helen steps into her place, and Cliff brings a lamp from the hall, and places it nearby. "Val," Jean whispers to her lover, "there is just one sad thought in my heart to-night. I suppose it is the memory of Christ's message of peace and love, which makes me so sorrowful when I think of the bitter feeling between your mother and yourself. Do you think it will ever be in my power to help to overcome it?" "We will try together, sweetheart, and the great blessing of your love will make all life easier, and better for me." Then Helen's hands strike the opening chords of the hymn and a hush falls upon the little group, and with one accord they move nearer the organ, and as the last bell of St. Andrew's dies slowly away, their voices take up the glad refrain: