On arriving home, I was startled by what Aunt Millie did. She came up to me, patted me lovingly on the head and said, “I’m glad you did so well, Al. Your uncle’s been telling me all about it. I’ll go and hear you tonight, too.” Martin evidently was interested, for in that belligerent tone of his, though softened by a light laugh, he said: “I suppose I’ll have to go, too, seeing I’m his relation!” I left the house that evening somewhat early, because I had to meet some friends. Martin was blacking his shoes; Aunt Millie was troubling herself unduly over what she should wear: a superfluous question, as she had but one Sunday dress and hat. On my way to church that night, I could not help feeling that I must have misunderstood my aunt. I chided myself for not having read her aright. I began to realize that there was a deep under-current to her nature--perhaps one of love? It was a thought like that that proved my best girding for the evening sermon. I sat in the pulpit while the church filled; for this evening service was always well attended. The choir of mill boys and girls, led by a patriarchal man whose face and hands were white as fuller’s earth, sang stirring anthems in which we saw the Palestinian shepherds in mute adoration of the stable miracle. The congregation sang, with great unction, another Christmas theme. Martin’s head towered at the rear; but I could find no trace of Aunt Millie. After the service, and the greetings of old-time friends, I looked about for Martin and Aunt Millie. I saw neither. It was somewhat late when I arrived home. Aunt Millie was waiting for me with a troubled face. “You managed to hide yourself pretty well!” I laughed. She cried as she confessed: “I didn’t go, Al. I didn’t hear you at all. That’s the plain truth!” “Why, I thought I saw you getting ready when I left,” I said. “Yes, I was; but I didn’t hear you preach. I couldn’t!” “Oh,” I laughed, “you couldn’t? What was the matter?” “I started out; but on the way I lost heart. I was afraid that I might cry out in church, with you preaching, lad. Besides, I’m not a dissenter. I was passing the Episcopal church and went in there, instead. I felt more at home. You can understand, can’t you, lad?” Then she asked me to sit on the sofa and tell her everything I had spoken of in my sermon; not to miss a point, but to give it all. She gave my points commendation, remarking every now and then while her eyes brimmed with tears, “It must have done them good, that!” Uncle sat at the lower end of the room, saying not a word; but listening, carefully. In the midst of my report the front door opened, and Martin, taking long, determined strides, hurried through the room without looking at any of us, closed the kitchen door with a bang, and left us looking into each other’s faces in bewilderment. “Maybe he’s mad at something you said, Al. You didn’t chance to look his way and talk of ‘coming to God,’ did you?”