“Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King, Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.” Beatrice took up the strain at the first line, and sweetly did their tones echo through the building; while their hearts swelled with delight and thankfulness for the “good tidings of great joy.” Another and another Christmas hymn was raised, and never were carols sung by happier voices; and the decorations proceeded all the better and more suitably beneath their influence. They scarcely knew how time passed away, till Henrietta, turning round, was amazed to see Uncle Geoffrey standing just within the door watching them. “Beautiful!” said he, as she suddenly ceased, in some confusion; “your work is beautiful! I came here prepared to scold you a little, but I don’t think I can. Who made that wreath and Monogram?” “She did, of course, papa,” said Beatrice, pointing to her cousin. “Who else could?” “It is a very successful arrangement,” said Uncle Geoffrey, moving about to find the spot for obtaining the best view. “It is an arrangement to suggest so much.” Henrietta came to the place where he stood, and for the first time perceived the full effect of her work. It was placed in front of the altar, the dark crimson covering of which relieved the shining leaves and scarlet berries of the holly. The three letters, I H S, were in the centre, formed of small sprays fastened in the required shape; and around them was a large circle of holly, plaited and twined together, the many-pointed leaves standing out in every direction in their peculiar stiff gracefulness. “I see it now!” said she, in a low voice full of awe. “Uncle, I did not mean to make it so!” “How?” he asked. “It is like Good Friday!” said she, as the resemblance to the crown of thorns struck her more and more strongly. “Well, why not, my dear?” said her uncle, as she shrunk closer to him in a sort of alarm. “Would Christmas be worth observing if it were not for Good Friday?” “Yes, it is right uncle; but somehow it is melancholy.” “Where are those verses that say--let me see-- ‘And still Thy Church’s faith Shall link, In all her prayer and praise, Thy glory with Thy death.’ So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite right.” Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer: and Beatrice said, “It is a very odd thing, whenever any work of art--or, what shall I call it?--is well done, it is apt to have so much more in it than the author intended. It is so in poetry, painting, and everything else.” “There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand, when we talk of the spirit in which a thing is done,” said her father: “But have you much more to do? Those columns look very well.” “O, are you come to help us, papa?” “I came chiefly because grandmamma was a good deal concerned at your not coming home to luncheon. You must not be out the whole morning again just at present. I have some sandwiches in my pocket for you.”