As we passed beyond the walls I read in great letters, carved upon the blocks above the ruinous portal, “The Social Structure of Christ.” “Kind Hope,” I cried, “if this be all that Christ can do for man, in self-derision do we celebrate his birth to-day.” She smiled half sadly, and half sweetly, for she could never, I believe, seem wholly sad. “Many of the stones,” she said, “are fallen. The inscription read at first not ‘of Christ,’ but ‘of Christendom.’ Before the memory of any living now the blocks were laid, and those which have crumbled have fallen, so that many believe the words were ever what they are. But turn and look.” Far away the clouds had broken and were all gilded by the rising sun. There stood another palace, which seemed much like the first, yet perfect in symmetry and beauty. “It is of the future,” I heard Hope say; “somewhere—beneath, above, behind, before, within,—somehow, future borders on that place which some call Heaven, the home of Love, of Knowledge, and of Joy.” As she ceased to speak I knew I was alone within my chamber. The Christmas bells were ringing merrily, and as I went forth into the cheerful sunshine and saw the pleasant sights that I had passed by in the palace of my dream I felt all my old despair rung out and a cheerful, living hope rung in. [Illustration: Decoration] CLANCY’S HOME-COMING. CLANCY’S HOME-COMING. I. W. BISHOP. [Illustrations by C. W. Berry.] [Illustration: Two drunk men] Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides, to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct. “Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s whereabouts. “Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?” “Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah. Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner. So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was probably on his way home, and not to worry. With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor. [Illustration: Drunk man at bar] Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—