Best of all, though, were those times when Anselm Lancaster went over to Miss Braithwaite’s piano, standing with its narrow end toward a book-filled corner, its keyboard toward the room, and, there in the shadow, played such exquisite music that it obliterated conscious thought, leaving no room for anything but the delight of harmonies. It was hard to go on working at these times. Miss Braithwaite’s work would fall into her lap, her face rest upon her hand while she gazed into the fire with eyes that seemed to look beyond the bounds of flesh, her expression unutterably wistful. Cis, who did not understand what she heard as Miss Braithwaite did, yet was engulfed by it. Never in her short life had anything so seized her as did this music, yet, while in the elder woman it woke the longing that nothing on earth can satisfy, in the girl it called out new resolution to live and to do. Cis talked little during these pleasant evenings, yet she never felt, nor was excluded. Miss Braithwaite’s smile was always ready for her; Mr. Lancaster included her with small services rendered her as she worked, and his eyes rested upon her as he talked, leaving her free to reply or not as she chose, and thus she, though silently for the most part, made a third in the conversation. On the eve of Christmas Eve Mr. Lancaster came rather later than usual; Cis had decided that he was not coming and was a little disappointed. She was restless; it was hard to keep her fingers steadily employed, her mind off the thought that the morrow would have been her wedding day. Somewhere Rod was remembering this. She sent a prayer out toward him wherever he might be, that he might be blessed. When Mr. Lancaster came in Miss Braithwaite was more than usually glad to see him. “Welcome indeed, Anselm!” she cried. “I am glad to see you, I heartily detest telephoning, but I must arrange the details of our Christmas with you. You know that the Jesuits have High Mass at midnight? Father Morley needed persuading to it, but he yielded to our clamor for it. My ragamuffins have their tree to-morrow, at five in the afternoon--though I don’t suppose you’d have suspected me of the morning five o’clock! As you’re to be my Santa Claus, you’ll meet me at the hall, I suppose? The tree should be all over by seven. Then you’ll come home with us; we’ll have a cozy dinner--_maigre_, for the vigil!--and quietly wait for the time to start for Mass. I’ll drive you and Cis; the maids are to be sent in another car. Then, after Mass, we’ll wish one another a blessed Noël, and Cicely a birthday of the best gifts, and go our ways to our well-merited slumber. Do you like my programme?”