"Rhoda," he said, solemnly, "never fall into the mistake of thinking that sinners aren't punished enough. It's a very common blunder. Many a man might have hanged himself, as Judas did, if Christ hadn't stepped in and shown him what the atonement is. It is to the Davids and Peters and Sauls that He says, 'Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.'" November came to an end. December set in with biting winds and gloomy skies, and then followed a sharp, wintry Christmas. It was a hard time for the birds. Rhoda would sit at the window and watch them congregating on the brier-bush in the corner of the garden. Now it was a plump thrush, puffing out its speckled breast, and feasting on the scarlet hips; now it was a blackbird, with dusky plumage and yellow bill. Then a score of finches and sparrows would alight on the frozen snow, and quarrel over the crumbs that she had scattered there. All day the sky was grey and clear; but sometimes at sunset, a flush would rest upon the white fields, tinting them with the delicate pink of half-opened apple-blossoms. On Christmas Eve, Rhoda Farren sat watching the hungry birds no longer. A little human life was drawing very near to immortality. The baby--Helen's wee, fragile baby--was hovering between two worlds. And then, for the first time, all Rhoda's sleeping instincts started up, awake and strong. Anger and selfishness were alike forgotten. Let the solemn feet of death be heard upon the threshold of the house, and all the petty wranglings of its inmates are stilled. He was coming--"the angel with the amaranthine wreath"--but Rhoda held the little one in her arms, and prayed the Father to shut the door against him. We know not what we ask when we pray for a child's life. We are pleading with the Good Shepherd that He will leave a little lamb in the wilderness instead of taking it into the fold. We are asking that it may tread the long, toilsome way home, instead of the short, smooth path that leads straight to rest. Surely our Lord never loves us better than when He says nay to such prayers as these. When we become even as they--the little children--and enter into the kingdom, we shall understand the infinite compassion of His denial. Christmas night closed in; and outside the cottage, the mummers, gay in patchwork and ribbons, clashed their tin swords, and sang their foolish rhymes. John went out and entreated them to go away. A glance through the open door showed Rhoda the clear, broad moonlight, shining over the snow-waste, and she heard the subdued voices of the men as they went off to some happier house. Then the door closed again, and she saw nothing but the little child's wan face.