"I don't think he mentioned _her_, my dear," said Mr. Churchwarden Smith. "Pass the mustard, Johnny." * * * * * Yes, as he thought it over during his lonely luncheon, David felt more and more convinced that his morning sermon had been a failure. He did not know of a little curly-headed boy, whose young widowed mother was at her wit's end as to how to control his wilfulness; but who ran straight to his garret-room after service, and, kneeling beside his frosty window, looked up to the wintry sky and said: "Please God, make me a Manuel to my mother, like Jesus was to His, for Christ's sake, Amen." David did not know of this; nor that, ever after, that cottage home was to be transformed, owing to the living power of his message. So, down in the depths of discouragement, he dubbed his morning sermon a failure. Notwithstanding, he prepared the evening subject with equal care, a spice of enjoyment added, owing to the fact that he would possibly--probably--almost to a certainty--have in the evening congregation a mind able to understand and appreciate each point; a mind of a calibre equal to his own; a soul he was bent on winning. As he closed his Bible, put it into his pocket, and relaxed over the thought that his sermon was complete, he smiled into the glowing wood fire, saying to himself, in glad anticipation: "My Lady of Mystery will undoubtedly be there. Now I wonder if _she_ believes that there were three Wise Men!" CHAPTER II THE LADY OF MYSTERY David thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his short coat, well cut, but inclined to be somewhat threadbare. He crossed his knees, and lay back comfortably in the Rector's big chair. An hour and a half remained before he need start out. It was inexpressibly restful to have his subject, clear cut and complete, safely stowed away in the back of his mind, and to be able to sit quietly in this warmth and comfort, and let his thoughts dwell lightly upon other things, while Christmas snow fell softly, in large flakes, without; and gathering twilight slowly hushed the day to rest. "Yes, undoubtedly my Lady of Mystery will be there," thought David Rivers, "unless this fall of snow keeps her away." He let his memory dwell in detail upon the first time he had seen her. It happened on his second Sunday at Brambledene. The deadening effect of the mental apathy of the congregation had already somewhat damped his enthusiasm. It was so many years since he had preached in English, that, on the first Sunday, he had allowed himself the luxury of writing out his whole sermon. This plan, for various reasons, did not prove successful.