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 unison with the day’s sweet lesson of peace and goodwill, 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 formulated into a tangible 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 exquisite gold bracelets 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 standing 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 rusty 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 munificent 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.”