Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation. To anyone who could have seen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, with his white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle and resigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerable peasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as far apart from every association of wealth, as the daisy in the grass is from the star in the sky. Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busy weighing millions of money,--the fate of an accumulated mass of wealth hung on the balance of his decision,--and he was mentally arranging his plans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which had distinguished him in his biggest financial schemes,--schemes which had from time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world. A certain wistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscape in the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn,--some secret instinctive foreboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should ever see. And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul,--regret that he had not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he had been able to enjoy their worth. So many simple joys missed!--so many gracious and helpful sentiments discarded!--all the best of his years given over to eager pursuit of gold,--not because he cared for gold really, but because, owing to a false social system which perverted the moral sense, it seemed necessary to happiness. Yet he had proved it to be the very last thing that could make a man happy. The more money, the less enjoyment of it--the greater the wealth, the less the content. Was this according to law?--the spiritual law of compensation, which works steadily behind every incident which we may elect to call good or evil? He thought it must be so. This very festival--Christmas--how thoroughly he had been accustomed by an effete and degenerate "social set" to regard it as a "bore,"--an exploded superstition--a saturnalia of beef and pudding--a something which merely served as an excuse for throwing away good money on mere stupid sentiment. "Stupid" sentiment? Had he ever thought true, tender, homely sentiment "stupid"? Yes,--perhaps he had, when in the bold carelessness of full manhood he had assumed that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong--but now, when the shadows were falling--when, perhaps, he would never hear the Christmas bells again, or be troubled by the "silly superstitions" of loving, praying, hoping, believing humanity, he would have given much could he have gone back in fancy to every Christmas of his life and seen each one spent cheerily amid the warm associations of such "sentiments" as make friendship valuable and lasting. He looked up half vaguely at the sky, clear blue on this still frosty morning, and was conscious of tears that crept smartingly behind his eyes and for a moment dimmed his sight. And he murmured dreamily--