“And thou, Sir Beggar,” went on the voice of the hermit, “thou hast, like thy neighbor, lived by sucking the world dry. Thou hast taken from the world and given nothing. God made thee to work, but thou hast disdained to work. Thy mind is rich with excuses and reasons, but none is good: thou art a lazy varlet and a selfish one. Therefore thou knowest not the Christ. For He was a carpenter, and his hands were hard with toil. He saved men, not lived on them, yonder in Nazareth. And none has right to joy on Christmas-tide who has no respect for himself and no joy in honest toil. Stretch out thy hand to the plow, not to ask an alms! Let thy brow shine with the sweat of thy work for the Christ; then shalt thou taste his joy! He has given himself to thee, and thou—thou art a beggar!” He was done. He turned to the philosopher with a quiet smile. “Have I not kept my word?” he asked. The other nodded slowly, then lifted his chin with a challenge: “In truth thou hast, good host. But I, too, am a student of men; and I have a flaw to pick in thine own case.” The hermit’s smile faded from his lips. He seemed for the moment to draw into himself; and he spoke in a low voice. “Nay,” he said; “I said not I was perfect; nor even that I gathered from this poor feast all that I might have gained of joy. It has been the better for your presence; and yet—I too confess I have known happier feasts.” It was the philosopher’s turn to smile, but he had lost his sneer, and he did not smile. “Thou hast withdrawn thyself, Sir Hermit,” he said not ungently, “from the world and its snares. Thou wast weak, and the evil in the world drew thee, and thy conscience troubled thee; and thou didst flee, like many others, to the wilderness. Is it not so?” He did not wait for a reply, but leaned forward and pointed his words with a long, slender finger. “And thou too hast lost—not all, but much, of the joy of this feast because thou hast been a coward! A coward! Thou wast afraid! Though thy Lord fought through forty days and forty nights of temptation; though he did agonize for thee in the garden; though he did show thee how to fight thy soul’s battles—thou didst run away to the desert! Thou hadst a place to fill, a work to do, men to serve, a Gospel to preach—and thou wast afraid! And thou hast but a part of thy joy to-day because thou hast forgotten that the Christ-child whose feast this is was born to succor thee in thy temptations! Thou hast no right to this feast! Thou shouldst be at thy work in the world! Thy Christ hath a work for thee!” A silence fell upon them. The hermit seemed to have shrunk into himself. Absently he rolled a parched pea between fingers none too steady. His voice trembled when at length he spoke.