"Going away?" Poor Billy accepted this Christmas offering with horrified anguish. "Going--" "Wait, Billy, boy. When Christmas is all over and done with, I am--going back to my other--home until next--summer. But Billy--I want a part of St. Ange with me"--her eyes shone--"I have--been--so happy here--so glad--and so different. I want something to make me remember--if I ever _could_ forget. Billy, I want you to come with me. There are schools there, dear. Hard work, and a bigger life--but it will make a man of you, Billy, if the thing is in you, that I believe _is_ in you. It's your chance down there, Billy, your best chance, I think, dear--and I'll be there to help you--and to have you help me. Billy, will you come?" Then Billy dropped the red tie and the be-flowered vest. Everything seemed to fall from him, but a radiance that grew and grew. He tried to speak, but failed. He put his hands out, but they trembled shamefully. Then all in a heap Billy sank at Constance Drew's feet and hid his throbbing head in the folds of her white silk gown. The pale moon peeped through the wide window, and cast a strange gleam over the tousled red head snuggled under the little, caressing hand. It transformed a girlish face that was looking far, far beyond St. Ange's calm and peace. The vision the girl saw was battle. Life's battle. Not little Billy's alone, though God knew that was to be no light matter. Not even Filmer's lonely struggle, but her own. Her fight against Convention and Preconceived Ideas. Against all that Always Had Been with What Was Now To Be. But as the far-seeing eyes gazed into the future, they softened until the tears mingled with Billy's on the already much-stained silken gown. "Billy-boy, we're crying. I wonder--what for?" "Because," Billy's mouth was full of that silken gown; "because you and me is so plum chuck-full of happiness we're nigh to busting." "Oh! Billy, is that really it, really?" Billy looked up from his shrine. "Ain't we?" he said solemnly. "Billy--I--believe--we--are." Late that night, standing alone by his study window, Drew's tired eyes travelled over his parish. His people had gone. They were his people at last. God-given, as he had been God-sent. He would work with them and for them. He would live day by day, and not look to the eventide. He would--then he looked down the moonlighted road to the stretch on beyond the house, where the snow lay unbroken on the way up to Gaston's shack. A tall, strong figure was striding into the emptiness. A man's form, swinging and full of purpose. It was--John Dale himself going up to meet his fate. There was no light of welcome in the shack among the pines. All was dark and lifeless. Drew started back. Humanity seemed to urge him to follow that lonely figure and be within call should his help be needed. Second thought killed the desire.