The little girl glanced round the wretched room: no loving hand had been there to put it tidy, no hope had entered it to make it bright, no relief had come to cheer and comfort. All that dreary Christmas Day, her mother had lain moaning on her miserable straw, and her little crippled brother had cried for food since early dawn, when the Christmas bells had sounded on the frosty air. Ah! no help, no succour, no happiness; nothing but want, and sin, and misery. An hour before, a neighbour, pitying the wretchedness of the poor starving family, had made her way up the dark stairs. "It ain't much I've got to give," she said abruptly, "but on Christmas night, I don't like to feel as you've not had a bit in your mouths all day; so here's sixpence, and you're kindly welcome." With that she laid down the little coin, and without waiting for thanks or to inquire how the invalid was, she hastened back to her room. And so it was to her kindness, they were indebted for that bit of candle and loaf of bread. Again the child heard the voice, "I stand and knock; I will come in and sup." "He said it was our hearts," she murmured to herself, looking still at the picture in the fire. "What?" asked her mother sharply. "The gen'lman said as He was askin' to come in, and if He came in, He'd make the place as beautiful as a palace—that He would!" "We don't want no one in here," gasped her mother; "leastways, unless they bring some'ut with 'em!" "The gen'lman said as He would, if we opened the door." "Then open it!" exclaimed the sick woman, rousing herself suddenly. "It's our hearts," said the girl, musingly, "and I daren't open the door for such as Him to come in; it ain't fit." The sick woman threw herself back impatiently, but after a long, long silence she said more softly: "Say them words over again, Meg; I've heard 'em afore, and I believe it's the Saviour as is knocking and wants to come in." "Yes, mother," answered Meg, eagerly; "I couldn't call it to mind afore. It's the Saviour as sez He's a-coming in, if we'll have Him!" "He's waited a long time for me to open the door," said the sick woman, "but—if He'll forgive—" * * * * * * And the clergyman's son heard the message, as he had so often heard it before, and he turned away from it as he had so often turned before. But when he reached his own chamber that night, after the pleasant family party was over, his mind went back to what he had witnessed in that mission-room. The little starving, emaciated, ragged boy had sat with his hungry eyes waiting for the coffee; but, though the child had intended to go to sleep, he did not do it, for the clergyman made it so plain that the Saviour was knocking at his heart that he could not forget it, and he listened with deep attention to every word. "If any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in."