There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And the tears stood in; my wife’s eyes--tears of gladness to hear her daughter’s sobs. “I will try, papa,” Constance said at last. “But you _will_ help me?” “That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by trying to tell you what I have heard and learned about him--heard and learned of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time when he was born;--but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to bear to-night.” “No, no, papa. Do go on.” “No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the very truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday--you have plenty to think about till then--I will talk to you about the baby Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, besides what I have got to say now.” “But,” said my wife, “don’t you think, Connie, this is too good to keep all to ourselves? Don’t you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?” “Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too.” “I fear they are rather young yet,” I said. “Perhaps it might do them harm.” “It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow,” said Ethelwyn, smiling. “How do you mean, my dear?” “Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. Besides, you always say such things to children as delight grown people, though they could never get them out of you.” It was a wife’s speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. “Well,” I said, “I don’t mind them coming in, but I don’t promise to say anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they wish it.” “Certainly,” answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. CHAPTER IV. A SUNDAY EVENING. When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my Bible in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. There was a glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the further side of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she thought another might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, leaving the space between the fire and my chair open that I might see and share the glow. “The wind is very high, papa,” said Constance, as I seated myself beside her. “Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?”