Early Christmas morning, however, his father ordered their removal, and with them sundry woven paper chains and flowers that Sergeant Hodgson, with great enthusiasm, had erected with the aid of old Miller, after Mrs. Kestern and Paul had left the night before. The gaily-coloured paper had indeed been incongruous against the natural flowers, and Mrs. Kestern had exclaimed at it. Her husband had been ruthless likewise. But Paul had criticised their edict. "Father," he had said, with his direct logic, "ought you to take away old Miller's chains? He thinks them beautiful. They're his offering to our Saviour. Surely God looks at the devotion more than at the thing. And you abolish my flowers too. Surely there's nothing Popish in a vase or two of chrysanthemums!" Mr. Kestern had been, however, obdurate. "We cannot have paper chains, Paul," he said, "not even to please you. I should have thought you, a budding poet, would have especially disliked them! And as to flowers behind the Table, you know it's not our custom." Paul, as usual, persisted. "Of course I don't like the paper," he said, "but that's not the point. And if a custom is good, why refuse it because Mohammedans or heathens, let alone Catholics, practice it?" "Don't argue with your father, my son," begged Mrs. Kestern, timidly. She hated argument. Besides Mr. Kestern was above criticism. (5) That Christmas night, there was a last carol singing. Dr. Barnardo's Homes had already benefitted heavily as a result of the Endeavourers' efforts, and, truth to tell, the band of young people went singing that evening under the twinkling, frosty sky more because they liked each other's company than for charitable reasons. Mr. Derrick had been outvoted, and, true Christian democrat, he had given in. They went towards a new, wealthy suburb of Claxted, not far from the edge of the country and Hursley Woods, and they sang here and there with great success. At last, as, far off, the Town Hall clock boomed eleven, Mr. Derrick nervously declared for home. It was cold, he said, and he was sure they were all tired. In the deserted street of curtained and mysterious villa windows, the moon glittering on the frosty road, the little knot of young people prepared to go their several ways. Paul, wrapped to the ears in his overcoat, stood by Edith altogether delightful and attractive in her furs. Albert Vintner was collecting hymn-books. He came up to them and hesitated. "May I see you home, Miss Thornton?" he asked. "It's out of your way, Vintner," said Paul. "I can do it." The young shop-assistant ignored him. "It's the last night of the carols," he said to Edith. The girl flushed, ill at ease. Paul realised, suddenly, that they were at a crisis. For a second or two it seemed to him that the small group about them stood still watching, that the very stars listened. Then he made up his mind and descended into the arena.