"Behold we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all-- And every winter change to spring!" A tall, athletic figure came between him and the light, and Angus Reay's voice addressed him-- "Hullo, David! A merry Christmas to you! Do you know you are standing out in the cold? What would Miss Mary say?" "Miss Mary" was the compromise Angus hit upon between "Miss Deane" and "Mary,"--considering the first term too formal, and the last too familiar. Helmsley smiled. "Miss Mary has gone to church,"--he replied--"I thought you had gone too." Reay gave a slight gesture of mingled regret and annoyance. "No--I never go to church,"--he said--"But don't you think I despise the going. Not I. I wish I could go to church! I'd give anything to go as I used to do with my father every Sunday." "And why can't you?" "Because the church is not what it used to be,"--declared Reay--"Don't get me on that argument, David, or I shall never cease talking! Now, see here!--if you stand any longer at that open door you'll get a chill! You go inside the house and imitate Charlie's example--look at him!" And he pointed to the tiny toy terrier snuggled up as usual in a ball of silky comfort on the warm hearth--"Small epicure! Come back to your chair, David, and sit by the fire--your hands are quite cold." Helmsley yielded to the persuasion, not because he felt cold, but because he was rather inclined to be alone with Reay for a little. They entered the house and shut the door. "Doesn't it look a different place without her!" said Angus, glancing round the trim little kitchen--"As neat as a pin, of course, but all the life gone from it." Helmsley smiled, but did not answer. Seating himself in his armchair, he spread out his thin old hands to the bright fire, and watched Reay as he stood near the hearth, leaning one arm easily against a rough beam which ran across the chimney piece. "She is a wonderful woman!" went on Reay, musingly; "She has a power of which she is scarcely conscious." "And what is that?" asked Helmsley, slowly rubbing his hands with quite an abstracted air. Angus laughed lightly, though a touch of colour reddened his bronzed cheeks. "The power that the old alchemists sought and never could find!" he answered--"The touch that transmutes common metals to fine gold, and changes the every-day prose of life to poetry." Helmsley went on rubbing his hands slowly. "It's so extraordinary, don't you think, David,"--he continued--"that there should be such a woman as Miss Mary alive at all?" Helmsley looked up at him questioningly, but said nothing. "I mean,"--and Angus threw out his hand with an impetuous gesture--"that considering all the abominable, farcical tricks women play nowadays, it is simply amazing to find one who is contented with a simple life like this, and who manages to make that simple life so gracious and beautiful!" Still Helmsley was silent.