I am not going to record all the proceedings of the evening; but I think it may be interesting to my readers to know something of how we spent it. First of all, we sang a hymn about the Nativity. And then I read an extract from a book of travels, describing the interior of an Eastern cottage, probably much resembling the inn in which our Lord was born, the stable being scarcely divided fron the rest of the house. For I felt that to open the inner eyes even of the brain, enabling people to SEE in some measure the reality of the old lovely story, to help them to have what the Scotch philosophers call a true CONCEPTION of the external conditions and circumstances of the events, might help to open the yet deeper spiritual eyes which alone can see the meaning and truth dwelling in and giving shape to the outward facts. And the extract was listened to with all the attention I could wish, except, at first, from some youngsters at the further end of the barn, who became, however, perfectly still as I proceeded. After this followed conversation, during which I talked a good deal to Jane Rogers, paying her particular attention indeed, with the hope of a chance of bringing old Mr Brownrigg and her together in some way. “How is your mistress, Jane?” I said. “Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here.” “I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next year.” “I think she will. I am almost sure she would have liked to come to-night; for I heard her say”—— “I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting you; but I would rather not be told anything you may have happened to overhear,” I said, in a low voice. “Oh, sir!” returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; “it wasn’t anything particular.” “Still, if it was anything on which a wrong conjecture might be built”—I wanted to soften it to her—“it is better that one should not be told it. Thank you for your kind intention, though. And now, Jane,” I said, “will you do me a favour?” “That I will, sir, if I can.” “Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night to your mother.” “I didn’t know any one was listening, sir.” “I know you did not. I came to the door with your father, and we stood and listened.” She looked very frightened. But I would not have asked her had I not known that she could sing like a bird. “I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself,” she said. “We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake of others,” I answered. “I will try then, sir.” So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the speech all round. “Babe Jesus lay on Mary’s lap; The sun shone in His hair: And so it was she saw, mayhap, The crown already there. “For she sang: ‘Sleep on, my little King! Bad Herod dares not come; Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing, Wild winds would soon be dumb. “‘I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, My King, so long desired; Thy hands shall never be soil’d, my sweet, Thy feet shall never be tired.