When that time comes ... when the time of the worship of _things_ shall be past; when the tribal sense of holiday shall have given place to the family sense, and that family shall be mankind; when shall never be seen the anomaly of celebrating in a glorification of little family tables--whose crumbs fall to those without--the birth of him who preached brotherhood; and the mockery of observing with wanton spending the birth of him who had not where to lay his head; when the rudiments of divine perception, of self-perception, of social perception, shall have grown to their next estate; when the area of consciousness shall be extended yet farther toward the outermost; when that new knowledge with which the air is charged shall let man begin to know what he is ... when that time comes, they will look back with utmost wonder at our uncouth gropings to note and honour something whose import we so obscurely discern; but perhaps, too, with wonder that so much of human love and divining should shine for us through the mists we make. X Two days before Christmas Ellen Bourne went through the new-fallen snow of their wood lot. Her feet left scuffled tracks clouded about by the brushing of her gown's wet hem and by a dragging corner of shawl. She came to a little evergreen tree, not four feet tall, with low-growing boughs, and she stood looking at it until her husband, who was also following the snow-filled path, overtook her. "Matthew," she said then, "will you cut me that?" Matthew Bourne stood with his ax on his shoulder and looked a question in slow preparation to ask one. [Illustration: "THE CHILDREN BEGAN TO SING 'GO BURY SAINT NICKLIS'"] "I just want it," she said; "I've--took a notion." He said that she had a good many notions, it seemed to him. But he cut the little tree, with casual ease and no compunctions, and they dragged it to their home, the soft branches patterning the snow and obscuring their footprints. "It's like real Christmas weather," Ellen said. "They can't stop that coming, anyhow." In the kitchen Ellen's father sat before the open oven door of the cooking stove, letting the snow melt from his heavy boots. "Hey," he said, "I was beginning to think you'd forgot about supper. What was in the trap?" At once Ellen began talking rapidly. "Oh," she said, "we'll have some muffins to-night, father. The kind you like, with--" "Well, what was in the trap?" the old man demanded peevishly. "Why don't you answer back? What was, Mat?" Matthew, drying his ax blade, looked at it with one eye closed. "Rabbit," he said. "Where is it?" her father demanded. "It was a young one--not as big as your fist," Ellen said. "I let it out before he got there. Where's mother?" "Just because a thing's young, it ain't holy water," the old man complained. "Last time it was a squirrel you let go because it was young--it's like being spendthrift with manna...." he went on.