Uncle Obed and his wife had married late in life and were old when Agatha was born, and it seemed as if the father loved her more for this, and her desertion of him for a worthless fellow, whose only virtue was his handsome face, had hurt him cruelly, and he would not forgive, and he kept aloof from the Christmas-tree, which was each year set up in the church where other fingers than Agatha’s swept the organ keys, and another voice sang “Glory to God on High.” But he was going to-night; he had promised his wife that he would, and Aunt Hannah’s face had been brighter all the day for that promise, and her step brisker and lighter as she prepared the basket of presents for the poor children of the parish, thinking, as she folded up a pair of lamb’s wool stockings, of the little Ruth whom she had never seen, and whose feet they would just fit. Where was she now, and where was Agatha that wintry day when the snow was drifting down so swiftly, and the wind was blowing so hard over her native hills. Something seemed to bring the absent one nearer to Aunt Hannah, and she almost felt the touch of the chord which was to have a beginning that night far away in New York and which would reach even to her lonely home and make it bright as the sunshine, which, as the day wore to a close, came through the dull gray clouds and fell soft and warm upon the pure white snow. There was a great crowd in the church that night, and Uncle Obed felt a throb of pain cut like a knife through his heart when he saw the gaily decorated tree, and heard the organ peal and the children’s voices telling of the “wonderful night” when “Angels and shining immortals, Crowding the ebony portals, Fling out their banners of light, on this Wonderful, wonderful, night.” He was thinking of thirteen years ago, and the golden head he saw in the gallery where Agatha sat in her bright beauty playing her Christmas songs. But his wife’s thoughts were more with Ruth, the unknown child, and as one after another the little ones went up the aisle, she prayed softly to herself, “God grant me life to see her some day before this very railing.” And God, who hears and answers the prayer of faith, heard and answered hers, though in a different way from what she had expected. As if the sight of the Christmas-tree and the happy, joyous faces of the children had softened Uncle Obed’s heart, he talked much that night of Agatha and the baby, as he always designated Ruth, who, if living, was then twelve years old at least. “They haunt me,” he said; “and it seems as if Aggie was here in this very room telling me to do something—I can’t make out what.” “She has been close to me all day, too,” Aunt Hannah replied, “she or the little one; and before the train came in I was foolish enough to go to her old room to see if all was right in case she came. You know, it is just as she left it, only the curtains are new.”