C. HEACJI, 
 Bookseller <S J Siationc
 
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 CHRISTMAS 
 
 AT GREYCASTLE 
 
 ! I . 
 
 M\ce Du-rawel Fie I 
 
 This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
 Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, 
 Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
 Our great redemption from above did bring." 
 
 '- ■ SECONn EDITION 
 
 > > > 
 
 , o '> 
 
 . 
 
 
 NEW YORK & LONDON 
 
 P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 6% Jmiclurbockcr |)rcss 
 1884
 
 
 Press of 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 New York 
 
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 ' * . . » »
 
 CO 
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 en 
 
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 CD 
 
 
 J 
 
 TO MY GODCHILDREN, 
 £5 Cyrus, Joy, Frances, Alice, Mary : 
 
 TO THOSE DWELLING WITH US, IN THIS BEAUTIFUL WORLD, TO WHICH THE 
 5VJ CHRIST CAME, "a YOUNG CHILD," ON CHRISTMAS-DAY, SO LONG 
 
 <M AGO ; AND TO THE LITTLE ONE, WHO HAS LEFT US, TO SEEK 
 
 HIM IN THAT OTHER WORLD, WHICH IS HIS FATHER'S 
 HOUSE, AND HERS ; — ALL SHELTERED ALIKE 
 <£ BY " THE LOVE, WHICH ENCOMPASSES 
 
 BOTH WORLDS AND MAKES 
 THEM ONE," 
 
 £ THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 _J 
 
 christmas-eve, Alice Durand Field 
 
 IT l8S4 
 
 x 
 6 
 
 6 
 
 L£ *J
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHRIS TMA S~E VE 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. — The Arrival .... 
 II.— Five O'Clock Tea 
 III. — The Christmas Story 
 IV. — The Christmas-Tree . 
 V. — Christmas Dreams Round the Yule 
 
 Logs 
 
 9 
 
 12 
 21 
 
 3° 
 36 
 
 CHRISTMAS-DA Y 
 
 I. — Daybreak 55 
 
 II.— The Abbey 62 
 
 III. — The Shepherd's Cottage . . -75 
 
 The Farewell Letter . . . • 9 1
 
 CHRISTMAS-EVE
 
 CHRISTMAS-EVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL 
 
 What a cold, bleak morning that was, thir- 
 teen years ago, when we left Edinburgh by the 
 early train, that we might be with our friends 
 in Aberdeenshire on Christmas- Eve ! 
 
 We stood a moment on the steps of the 
 Caledonian Hotel, waiting for the cab. 
 
 " One last look at Edinburgh Castle," ex- 
 claimed Agnes. 
 
 The old fortress was austere and implacable 
 as on that other morning far away in the 
 romantic fourteenth century, when the fol- 
 lowers of the Bruce scaled her ramparts and 
 
 9
 
 I O CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 defied England from her battlements. Our 
 world has known many changes since those 
 feudal days when warriors turned crusaders ; 
 and knights, saints or robbers ; when cathe- 
 drals were building, and the Scottish minstrel 
 was singing on highland and moorland and 
 in banquet-hall, of his country and his king. 
 But Edinburgh Castle is unchanged. 
 
 Our light-hearted young comrade's senti- 
 ment was short-lived, however, and she was 
 soon hurrying us, and the wind blowing us, 
 into our four-wheeler. 
 
 This combination of forces swept us again 
 into the train. 
 
 As the day advanced, the wind abated, and 
 the snow-flakes fell silently and fast. 
 
 We left the train for the carriage, and in the 
 late afternoon we found ourselves in a white 
 forest, and, through the vista of snow, discov- 
 ered the grey castle, its towers dark with ivy, 
 and, at last, the well-remembered group, and a 
 sound of welcome as the heavy doors swing 
 back !
 
 THE ARRIVAL. II 
 
 We are in the entrance-hall, once the court- 
 yard of the castle and open to the skies, as 
 now to the skylight. 
 
 How familiar all is, — the background of 
 crimson and black draperies (the family tartan) 
 decorated with the armor of generations; and 
 above, the banners, furled, pointed, and crossed, 
 won on many a battle-field; around and above, 
 paintings of other days — strange scenes and 
 varied costumes ; — a picture-gallery from pave- 
 ment to dome. 
 
 Before us, our venerable host, with his 
 courteous greeting, and Mrs. Erskine, with her 
 motherly solicitudes ; and about us the mur- 
 mur of pleasant voices. 
 
 Our kind hostess enjoins " rooms and rest," 
 with affectionate peremptoriness. " You have 
 an evening before you." 
 
 We follow her leading up the broad staircase 
 winding round the court, within the corridors 
 which stand like cloisters, twice repeated, round 
 a quadrangle.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FIVE O CLOCK TEA. 
 
 I was still in my own room on the sofa, 
 warm in the firelight, dreamily enjoying the 
 pleasant memories of the day, and the sweet 
 sense of a happy resting-place in the heart 
 and home of an old friend. What a refuge 
 is this ! 
 
 I was roused by the voice of my friend. 
 
 " Our school-boys are arrived, cold and hun- 
 gry, and I have ordered tea in the library at 
 once ; will you come ? " 
 
 We crossed the corridors, descending the 
 staircase ; the pictures looked out from their 
 frames. So shadowy they were in the winter 
 twilight, those quaintly-dressed ladies and 
 their cavaliers. Charles the Second smiled 
 upon me, sardonically, as I passed ; and I 
 thought Princess Mary (a small person of 
 
 12
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. 1 3 
 
 some six years with a very long skirt and a 
 very short waist) looked frightened and quite 
 unequal to the dethronement of a king and the 
 conquest of a kingdom. 
 
 From the chill and silent shadows of the 
 corridors, we passed into the light and life of 
 the library. 
 
 The Christmas logs burned brightly on the 
 old-fashioned hearth ; and in their ruddy glow, 
 Lady Margaret's lads, brown and handsome in 
 Highland kilts, v/ere receiving a somewhat 
 clamorous welcome from the dogs, gathered 
 about the rug. Their mother had just ap- 
 proached our aged host, who was reading be- 
 side the large table loaded with books. She was 
 recounting the adventures of the day, and he, 
 looking up from his book and his lamp, smiled 
 responsively. But who did not smile for her, 
 whose joyous nature rippled across another's 
 as the sunbeam shimmers in the stream ? 
 
 And for him — 
 
 Manners arc not idle, but the fruit 
 Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.
 
 1 4 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 Miss Erskine was pouring out tea, caring for 
 the needs of each of the party scattered through 
 the two long rooms (a young girl, sister to our 
 school-boys and cousin to Miss Erskine, with a 
 shy smile, fair and silent, officiating as cup- 
 bearer) ; while she follows with attention the 
 quiet talk of the elderly scholar, whose cup she 
 is now replenishing. He enjoys her intelligent 
 comradeship ; so does the gardener's blooming 
 little daughter. One might have seen the child, 
 an hour since, beside her large basket of holly, 
 beneath that picture, in the recess, reaching to 
 Miss Erskine, who stoops from her ladder, the 
 green boughs with their red berries, now clus- 
 tering in dark rich branches above the old 
 Italian frame, from which a graceful lady looks 
 out, her falcon on her wrist. She was once a 
 happy child in this house, on other Christmas 
 nights, long ago. A yellow letter tells how she 
 grew to womanhood, and was beloved through 
 all the country-side, and of her early death. 
 She will never grow older, that fair lady. Her 
 youth and loveliness are immortal.
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. 1 5 
 
 "You are looking for the Archdeacon?" 
 said my guide. 
 
 " I have only to follow Agnes," I answered. 
 
 "You are quite right," she said. "Your 
 youthful charge unearthed and captured him, 
 when I thought him quite absorbed with the 
 Principal and the ' Siege of Paris.' But there 
 they are with the children in the drawing-room. 
 He has forgotten his tea," she added regret- 
 fully — " so like him." He was reading as we 
 drew near, and we did not disturb him. The 
 children listened, we also, watching with inter- 
 est the play of the delicate cameo-like features 
 of that eager, expressive face. 
 
 " Down swept the chill wind from the mountain 
 
 peak, 
 From the snow five thousand summers old ; 
 On open wold and hill-top bleak 
 It had gathered all the cold, 
 
 And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek. 
 It carried a shiver everywhere 
 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 
 The little brook heard it and built a roof
 
 1 6 CHRISTMAS-EVE. 
 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; 
 
 All night by the white star's frosty gleams 
 
 He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
 ****** 
 
 Within the hall are song and laughter ; 
 
 The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 
 With the lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
 
 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
 
 Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide. 
 
 But the wind without was eager and sharp, 
 
 Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
 
 And wrattles and wrings 
 
 The icy strings, 
 
 Singing, in dreary monotone 
 
 A Christmas carol of its own, 
 
 Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
 
 Was — ' Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! ' 
 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch ; 
 
 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
 
 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
 
 Through the window-slits of the castle old 
 
 Build out its piers of ruddy light 
 
 Against the drift of the cold.
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. \J 
 
 There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
 
 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 
 
 For another heir in his earldom sate ; 
 
 An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
 
 He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
 
 No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 
 
 But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
 
 The badge of the suffering and the poor. 
 
 Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
 
 Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
 
 For it was just at the Christmas-time ; 
 
 So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
 
 And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
 
 In the light and warmth of long ago ; 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 ' For Christ's sweet sake I beg an alms ' ; — 
 
 * * •* % * V 
 
 But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 
 The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 
 That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
 And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
 In the desolate horror of his disease.
 
 1 8 CHRIS TMA S-E I '£. 
 
 And Sir Launfal said : ' I behold in thee 
 
 An image of Him who died on the tree ; 
 
 Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 
 
 Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — 
 
 And to thy life were not denied 
 
 The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
 
 Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
 
 Behold, through him, I give to Thee ! ' 
 
 Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
 
 And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
 
 Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
 
 He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
 
 When he caged his young life up in gilded mail 
 
 And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
 
 The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
 
 He parted in twain his single crust, 
 
 He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
 
 And gave the leper to eat and drink ; 
 
 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 
 
 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, — 
 
 Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, 
 
 And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 
 
 As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
 
 A light shone round about the place ;
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. 19 
 
 The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
 
 But stood before him glorified, 
 
 Shining and tall and fair and straight 
 
 As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 
 
 Himself the Gate whereby men can 
 
 Enter the temple of God in man. 
 
 His words were shed softer than leaves from the 
 
 pine, 
 And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine 
 That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
 With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 
 And the voice that was calmer than silence said : 
 ' Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! 
 In many climes, without avail, 
 Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 
 Behold it is here, — this cup which thou 
 Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now ; 
 This crust is My body broken for thee, 
 This water His blood that died oh the tree ; 
 The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
 In whatso we share with another's need ; 
 Not what we give, but what we share, — 
 For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
 Who giveth himself with his alms feeds three —
 
 20 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me.' 
 Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : 
 ' The Grail in my castle here is found ! 
 Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
 Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
 He must be fenced with stronger mail 
 Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.'
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 " It was only a dream after all, " said Agnes, 
 with an accent of disappointment. " How- 
 ever, " she added, philosophically, " it would 
 have been so very dismal had it been true." 
 
 " But why ? " asked the Archdeacon, drink- 
 ing mechanically the cup of tea which Mrs. 
 Erskine had recovered for him. 
 
 One of the Highland school-boys interrupted : 
 
 "Agnes thinks she would not find it cheerful 
 in the avenue to-night under the yew-trees." 
 
 " And," added his elder brother, " she would 
 suffer the additional anguish of the conviction 
 that you and I were devouring her ices and 
 sweets," and he pulled the fore paws of his dog 
 over his knees. 
 
 " And what do you think, Elsie ? " inquired 
 the Archdeacon of a grave little girl, who was 
 
 21
 
 22 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 still leaning on the arm of his high-backed 
 chair. 
 
 Elsie hesitated, but at last whispered softly : 
 " I do not think Sir Launfal felt the cold." 
 
 " But why ?" repeated her uncle. 
 
 " He was so happy about his Christmas 
 present." 
 
 " How do you know?" continued her ques- 
 tioner. 
 
 " I know it," said the child slowly, " because 
 when I was knitting you these stockings which 
 I am to give you to-night," and she touched 
 significantly the pocket of her little apron 
 which had a swelled appearance, " I sometimes 
 found it a little tiresome, but then I remem- 
 bered you would be pleased, and then I was so 
 happy it was not tiresome any longer." Her 
 tone grew confidential. " I think Sir Launfal 
 felt in that way when he had given the beggar 
 that Christmas luncheon and saw him so 
 pleased and comforted. 
 
 " But what is the Holy Grail ? " continued 
 the earnest child. 
 
 " The Grail in my castle here is found" said
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 2$ 
 
 the Archdeacon tenderly ; — a moment later : 
 "The Holy Grail is the cup which our Lord 
 blessed, and from which he drank with his dear 
 friends at the Holy Supper, the sacred scene 
 which we commemorate in our Sacramental 
 Service. This cup was lost, and there were 
 devout and enthusiastic men who believed that 
 to find this cup, so associated with His suffer- 
 ing and His love, would seem to bring Jesus 
 very near, perhaps face to face, for one happy 
 moment. It was not so strange, therefore, 
 that this cup was held so precious. This was 
 the quest of the Holy Grail." 
 
 " How blessed if one might only seek it 
 now ! " sighed Agnes. 
 
 " My child," said the Archdeacon, with 
 gravity, " seek always the reality behind the 
 symbol ; ' the inward and spiritual grace ' be- 
 hind ' the outward and visible sign. ' Seek the 
 love which blessed the cup ; consider reverently 
 the sacrifice which transfigures it. 
 
 Behold it is here * * * 
 
 The Holy Supper is kept indeed, 
 
 In whatso we share with another's need
 
 24 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 (but always in His name). Remember, Sir 
 Launfal found the Grail at his own gate ! We 
 meet the Christ when we do what is Christ-like. 
 We have not far to seek Him. He is already 
 with us. We may leave Him but He never 
 leaves us. " 
 
 "Let not your heart be troubled," said the 
 Principal quietly, as he stooped to examine 
 Miss Erskine's winter-garden. 
 
 A stir among the dogs, and a few sharp 
 barks, a bustle in the library, and a tall gentle- 
 man in a travelling-cloak enters, and rapidly 
 crosses the room to Mrs. Erskine ! 
 
 Ah, one has but one father and mother! 
 
 The only son returned safe from India, and 
 on Christmas-eve ! 
 
 Mrs. Erskine had no words. La joie fait 
 penr. 
 
 " I should have taken the garrison by sur- 
 prise," said the young officer gaily, amid the 
 tumult of welcome, " but Mary found me out 
 and met me at the door. However, she kept 
 her secret."
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 2$ 
 
 "You cannot know," exclaimed Lady Mar- 
 garet, " all the computations of trains and 
 times to which she has subjected us since the 
 telegram reported your ship. Her mathemati- 
 cal calculations would have exhausted the 
 brain of La Place." 
 
 " And yet it was all in vain," interposed 
 Mary. " I did not expect him until midnight, 
 but I was in the Hall dressing the Christmas- 
 tree, when the door fell suddenly back and he 
 was before me." 
 
 " But where is my father? " asked the trav- 
 eller. His mother passed her arm through his, 
 and they left the room together. 
 
 " Do you remember, Uncle Alfred, you 
 promised us another story?" asked little Ar- 
 thur. 
 
 " What shall my story tell about ? " said the 
 Archdeacon, as the child climbed upon his 
 knee. 
 
 " A giant," responded Arthur, valiantly. 
 
 "Oh, no!" urged Elsie; "about Christ- 
 mas."
 
 26 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 " I will tell you about both. My hero is a 
 giant, and it all happened in the winter-time, 
 quite close to Christmas," replied her uncle, 
 reassuringly, as the children closed round him; 
 and within that magic circle, that " Group of 
 The Blessed," he began : 
 
 " There is an old story, a kind of Sunday 
 fairy tale, which you may sometimes have seen 
 represented in pictures and statues in ancient 
 churches (there are two sculptures of it in 
 Westminster Abbey), of a great heathen giant 
 who wished to find out some master that he 
 should think worthy of his services — some one 
 stronger than himself. He went about the 
 world, but could find no one stronger. And 
 besides this, he was anxious to pray to God, 
 but did not know how to do it. At last he 
 met with a good old man by the side of a 
 deep river, where poor wayfaring people want- 
 ed to get across, and had no one to help them. 
 And the good old man said to the giant : 
 ' Here is a place where you can be of some 
 use ; and if you do not know how to pray, you
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 2"] 
 
 will, at any rate, know how to work, and per- 
 haps God will give you what you ask, and per- 
 haps, also, you will at last find a master 
 stronger than you ! ' So the giant went and 
 sat by the river-side, and many a time he 
 carried poor wayfarers across. One night he 
 heard a little child crying to be carried over ; 
 so he put the child on his shoulder and strode 
 across the stream. Presently the wind blew, the 
 rain fell, and as the river beat against his knees 
 he felt the weight of the little child almost 
 greater than he could bear, and he looked up 
 with his great, patient eyes (there is a beauti- 
 ful picture in a beautiful palace at Venice, 
 where we see him with his face turned up- 
 ward, as he tries to steady himself in the 
 raging waters), and he saw that it was a child 
 glorious and shining ; and the child said : ' Thou 
 art laboring under this heavy burden, because 
 thou art carrying One who bears the sins of all 
 the world.' 
 
 " And then, as the story goes on, the giant 
 felt that it was the child Jesus, and when he
 
 2 8 CHE IS TAIA S-E VE. 
 
 reached the other side of the river he fell down 
 before Him. Now he had found some one 
 stronger than he was — some one so good, so 
 worthy of loving, as to be a Master whom 
 he could serve. In later days the thought 
 of the giant Christopher (the bearer of the 
 child Christ) was so dear to men, that his 
 picture was often painted very large on the 
 churches, so that those who saw it far off 
 should have a pleasant and holy remembrance 
 through the day, which would save them from 
 running into evil. 
 
 " But we all may learn from it two useful 
 lessons, which may keep us from evil and lead 
 us into good. 
 
 " The first lesson is that often, when we know 
 not how to believe or how to pray, we at any 
 rate may know how to work for the good of 
 others, and then God accepts this as if it were 
 a prayer. 
 
 " There is an old Latin saying, Laborare est 
 orare, — or if we were to turn it into English we 
 should say:
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 29 
 
 Good working and good playing 
 Is almost like good praying ; 
 
 or, as some one else has said : 
 
 He prayeth well who loveth well 
 Both man, and bird, and beast. 
 
 " We ought all of us to say our prayers ; they 
 will help us to do what is good ; but we must 
 also all remember that our prayers are of no 
 use unless we strive, both in our work and in 
 our play, 
 
 To live more nearly as we pray. 
 
 " This is one lesson which we may carry with 
 us from the story of St. Christopher, and one 
 which applies to all, whether grown-up people 
 or children. 
 
 " Pray and work, work and pray, do as much 
 good as you can, and God will reward you at 
 last."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS-TREE. 
 
 " BUT there is another lesson," continued the 
 Archdeacon. 
 
 " Excuse me, but Duncan waits to light the 
 tree, and Mary begs you will come with the 
 children." 
 
 The slight figure of our youthful cup-bearer 
 glided into the magic circle. 
 
 As Elsie rose, her prominent pocket sug- 
 gested itself. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, dismayed, 
 " these stockings should have been placed 
 among the presents, at the foot of the tree." 
 
 "Run, Elsie," said Robert, good-naturedly, 
 "and you will arrive before the audience." 
 
 The deliberate Robert turned slowly toward 
 the door, calling his dog, while the Archdeacon 
 with his little band, following the white-robed
 
 THE CHRISTMAS-TREE. 3 I 
 
 messenger, descended the staircase; I lingered, 
 looking into the court below. 
 
 The banquet-hall of the old castle was never 
 more picturesque, surely, not even in its feudal 
 days. The tree glittered with its hundred stars, 
 as Captain Erskine lifted his flaring torch from 
 the final taper. The gifts are arranged on low 
 tables around the dark urn of curious pottery, 
 in which the brilliant tree is planted. Miss 
 Erskine hands these to the dainty maiden, 
 whose light form fiits in and out through the 
 " Cherub Choir " gathered round the tree, dis- 
 tributing her offerings. Our good fairy is pass- 
 ing now into that group in the background of 
 household servants and tenants. I see Mrs. 
 Erskine there, speaking to the shepherd's wife, 
 the mother of the sick child. The little mes- 
 senger hands her a basket carefully packed, 
 and she is explaining its contents to the 
 cottager. 
 
 But where is our host ? 
 
 I see him at last across the court with several 
 gentlemen, seated round the fire; they are
 
 3 2 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 talking earnestly. But Lady Margaret is sent 
 to summon them to the festive scene. They 
 rise, but the Professor continues: " In the pres- 
 ent condition of German politics," — Lady 
 Margaret interposes and her eloquence pre- 
 vails; the party pass under my balcony upon 
 the staircase, and join the group about the 
 tree. 
 
 There is Agnes, on a low bench underneath 
 the armor and the pointed banners. Her girl- 
 ish gaiety pervades the circle of elder children 
 gathered round her. The Archdeacon and the 
 Principal linger in this radiance of youthful 
 gladness. And I go to seek it. 
 
 As I cross the Hall, little Alfred pulls my 
 gown. He, with his brother, is studying a 
 picture of a London street through which a 
 procession passes, following the Lord Mayor 
 in his scarlet coat. 
 
 "Charlie says he must be Santa Claus," 
 thoughtfully remarked the little fellow. 
 
 I had hitherto regarded the Lord Mayor as 
 a dignified and somewhat imposing person.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS-TREE. 33 
 
 "Are you happy, Herbert?" inquired Miss 
 Erskine of a child, who, seated on the tiled 
 pavement, was preparing his tin soldiers for 
 immediate action. 
 
 " My pleasure is not speakable," said Her- 
 bert, " and I shall storm the castle at once." 
 
 " Not a grateful return for hospitality," 
 laughed Agnes. 
 
 Alfred had deserted Santa Claus, and now 
 appeared with a hideous mechanical frog, 
 which he placed upon the pavement. The 
 frog jumped. 
 
 " Is he not an obstinate frog ? " complained 
 Alfred. " I wish him to kick like a horse, but 
 he will only jump like a frog." 
 
 " He is only a frog, Alfred," said the Arch- 
 deacon to his little namesake, " and he cannot 
 be any thing else ; but we grown men and wo- 
 men, in our dealings with each other, some- 
 times make your mistake." 
 
 Alfred did not listen to his uncle's philoso- 
 phy, but deserting the frog as he had Santa 
 Claus, was begging a song of Agnes; and the
 
 34 CHRISTMA S-E VE. 
 
 rich, young voice rose above helmet, lance, and 
 banner, making sweet melody in the old ban- 
 quet-hall. 
 
 " O little town of Bethlehem, 
 
 How still we see thee lie, 
 Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
 
 The silent stars go by ; 
 Yet in thy dark streets shineth 
 
 The everlasting light : 
 The hopes and fears of all the years 
 
 Are met in thee to-night. 
 
 " For Christ is born of Mary, 
 
 And gathered all above, 
 While mortals sleep, the angels keep 
 
 Their watch of wondering love. 
 O morning stars together 
 
 Proclaim the holy birth ! 
 And praises sing to God the King, 
 
 And peace to men on earth. 
 
 " How silently, how silently, 
 The wondrous gift is given ;
 
 THE CHRISTMAS-TREE. 35 
 
 So God imparts to human hearts, 
 
 The blessing of His Heaven. 
 No ear may hear His coming, 
 
 But in this world of sin, 
 Where meek souls will receive Him still, 
 
 The dear Christ enters in. 
 
 O holy child of Bethlehem, 
 
 Descend to us, we pray ; 
 Cast out our sin, and enter in ; 
 
 Be born in us to-day. 
 We hear the Christmas angels 
 
 The great glad tidings tell, 
 O come to us, abide with us, 
 
 Our Lord Emmanuel ! "
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS ROUND THE YULE-LOGS. 
 
 THE song ceased ; it had floated to the 
 dim corridors above, and was lost among the 
 shadows of the pictured dome. 
 
 " I wish it were always Christmas-Eve and 
 not usually common days," cried Herbert. 
 
 " Suppose it were always common days," 
 and there were no Christmas-Eve," suggested 
 Robert, who enjoyed the presentation of 
 dreadful possibilities to the infant mind. 
 
 " Hear what cousin Robert is saying," 
 groaned Herbert, rushing for consolation to 
 his favorite uncle. 
 
 The Archdeacon was speaking with the 
 Professor. 
 
 " The boy's light words recall a strange 
 dream to my mind," said the latter. 
 
 " O please tell us about it ! " pleaded Elsie. 
 
 36
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 37 
 
 " Let us return to the fire and you shall hear 
 my dream," he replied. 
 
 They gathered round the huge chimney- 
 place; the gentlemen drawing their chairs 
 about the hearth, our Highland lads and their 
 dogs occupying the rug as usual, and the 
 children, again closing round the Archdeacon, 
 stood expectant, when the Professor began : 
 
 "You may not know, children, that there is 
 a superstition in Germany, of which we Ger- 
 mans hear in childhood from our nurses, that 
 the spirits of those who are gone to heaven re- 
 turn at midnight to pray in the churches while 
 we are sleeping. (Is it because these places 
 were sweet refuges to them upon earth?) As 
 we grow to be men and women we know that 
 this is only superstition, but many things we 
 know to be unreal return to us in dreams. 
 
 " I was lying once, on a summer evening, in 
 the sunshine ; and I fell asleep. Methought I 
 awoke in the church-yard on Christmas- Eve. 
 The down-rolling wheels of the steeple-clock, 
 which was striking eleven, had awakened me.
 
 3 8 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 In the emptied night-heaven I looked for the 
 sun; for I thought an eclipse was veiling him 
 with the moon. 
 
 The gates of the church-yard stood open. 
 Over the whole heaven hung, in large folds, a 
 grey, sultry mist ; which a giant shadow, like 
 vapor, was drawing down. I passed through 
 unknown spirits into the church. All the 
 spirits were standing round the empty Altar. 
 
 " Now sank from aloft a noble, high Form, 
 with a look of uneffaceable sorrow, down to 
 the Altar, and all the spirits cried out : ' Christ ! 
 is there no God?' 
 
 " He answered : ' There is none ! ' 
 
 "Then came the children, who had been 
 awakened in the church-yard, into the temple, 
 and cast themselves before the high Form 
 on the Altar, and said : ' Jesus, have we no 
 Father ? ' 
 
 " And He answered, with streaming tears : 
 ' We are all orphans, I and you ; we are with- 
 out Father.' 
 
 " Then I awoke. My soul wept for joy that
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 39 
 
 it was all a dream, and that I could still pray 
 to God ; and the joy, and the weeping, and the 
 faith on Him were my prayer. 
 
 " And as I arose, the sun was glowing deep 
 behind the full purpled corn-ears, and casting 
 meekly the gleam of its twilight red on the 
 little moon, which was rising in the east with- 
 out an aurora ; and the birds were singing and 
 little children playing, all living, as I did, be- 
 fore the infinite Father; and from all nature 
 around me flowed peaceful tones as from dis- 
 tant evening bells." 
 
 The Professor was silent. The faces of the 
 little ones expressed only baby wonder. The 
 elder children were thoughtful. 
 
 Then the Professor said : " No experience of 
 my life has brought before me so vividly as this 
 dream, the desolation of a life without God. 
 If my dream had been true, children, there 
 would be no Christmas-Eve any longer." 
 
 " We are not orphans, but children," said the 
 Archdeacon earnestly ; " children of a Father 
 who is unchangeable.
 
 40 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 It fortifies my soul to know 
 That, though I perish. Truth is so ; 
 That, howsoever I stray and range ; 
 What 'er I do, Thou dost not change. 
 I steadier step when I recall 
 That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall." 
 
 "It is true," said the Principal, that He 
 never deserts us, but we may desert Him. Do 
 you remember the dream of New-Year night 
 by the Professor's favorite Richter?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Archdeacon, "but recall it 
 if possible for the children." 
 
 " The Professor will tell the story better 
 than I," said the Principal, appealing to the 
 latter, who consented, and opened thus the 
 German's dream : 
 
 " An old man stood on New-Year night 
 at the window, and looked up with a gaze 
 of fixed despair to the stars, the Paradise 
 above, and down on the still, pure, white earth, 
 a Paradise below. In this beautiful world 
 to-night he alone seems a joyless, sleepless 
 wanderer.
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 4 1 
 
 " He seems to see at his feet a grave in 
 which lie buried the rich treasures of his life 
 (its gifts, its opportunities), laid there year after 
 year, faded and wasted. He has kept only a 
 shrivelled soul, a withered body, and a broken 
 heart. 
 
 " His beautiful youthful days wandered 
 about to-day like ghosts, and drew him back 
 to the bright morning when his father first 
 placed him at the parting-way of life. The 
 one path, the path of duty, is difficult, and 
 leads upward across the hills, but at last into 
 a peaceful land, wide and fair, of purple har- 
 vests and golden sunshine, and guarded by 
 angels. The other path is easy, but leads 
 downward, always downward, away from the 
 sky and the sunshine, down into the dark 
 abysses of sin, where are the mole-hills of crime, 
 and where the angels never come. 
 
 " Alas ! it was this sad path he had chosen 
 long ago, and to-night he stands alone, gazing 
 into the grave at his feet, at the buried treas- 
 ures of his youth, his manhood, and his old
 
 42 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 age. He cannot endure this anguish, and he 
 cries with unspeakable sorrow: ' O God, give 
 me back my youth ! Place me again at the 
 parting-way with my father, that I may choose 
 once more ! ' 
 
 " But his father and his youth were long past. 
 He saw a star fly from heaven and in the fall 
 glimmer and die out upon the earth. ' Such 
 am I,' moaned his poor heart, gnawed by the 
 tooth of repentance. 
 
 "In the midst of the struggle the music for 
 the New Year flowed suddenly down from 
 the tower like a far-off church-song. He was 
 gently moved ; he looked around the horizon 
 and over the wide earth, and he thought of 
 the friends of his youth, who now, better and 
 happier than he, were teachers of the earth, 
 fathers of happy children and noble men, and 
 he said : ' Oh ! I might also, like you, sink to 
 sleep this New-Year night with dry eyes, if I 
 had so willed. Ah ! I might have been happy, 
 you dear parents, if I had fulfilled your New- 
 Year wish and teaching.'
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 43 
 
 " He could endure it no longer ; he covered 
 his face, and hot tears fell on his aged cheeks. 
 Then he cried : ' O, my lost youth, return ! ' 
 
 " And it returned ; for he had only dreamed 
 so frightfully on. New-Year night ; he was 
 still a youth. Only his errors had been no 
 dream ; but he thanked God, that he, still 
 young, could turn around in the unworthy path, 
 and seek that upward road across the hills, 
 which leads at last into a peaceful land, wide 
 and fair, of purple harvests and golden sunshine 
 and guarded by angels." 
 
 "What a grisly dream! " said Miss Erskine 
 from behind the Principal's chair. 
 
 Her duties done, she had joined the circle at 
 the fireside, — the modest maiden in waiting, as 
 usual. 
 
 The young officer with his mother drew near 
 the Archdeacon, and I caught Lady Margaret's 
 voice in animated conversation with the Pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 " Let us dwell in thought rather upon 
 the presence of Christ than His absence, on
 
 44 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 this His birthnight," said our venerable host, 
 gently. 
 
 "You are right," warmly responded the 
 Archdeacon. "The first dream" (turning to 
 the children) " showed us how sad it would be 
 if God were to leave one of us ; and the second, 
 how very sad if one of us were to leave Him. 
 Now I will tell you a dream which shows us 
 that we need never be separated from Him ; 
 and how happy that is ! A friend of mine 
 dreamed this dream, and he has written a 
 beautiful poem about it. I will begin in my 
 own words. 
 
 " Last Christmas-Eve began drearily ; the 
 fog was dense, and the air in the house so 
 heavy, that, as the evening drew on, my 
 friend turned into the street with an old 
 comrade for a fresh breath. 
 
 "They turned toward the Embankment, 
 seeking the air from the river, and crossing a 
 crooked street, fell in with a group of trades- 
 people of the poorer sort, dirty, and some- 
 times a little clamorous, who were gathering 
 about a queer little chapel.
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 45 
 
 " The friends entered with them : the men 
 shuffled ; the women gossiped audibly at inter- 
 vals ; the babies cried. Then the clergyman 
 opened the Bible and read. 
 
 " ' His voice is intolerable,' said my friend to 
 his companion. 
 
 "They had waited to hear a part of the 
 sermon. 
 
 " ' Oh ! let us escape,' he urged impatiently, 
 ' from this vulgar crowd, and this stupid man 
 prosing over commonplaces.' 
 
 " And they turned abruptly from the door. 
 So still it was without, and so beautiful in the 
 moonlight ! The fog was gone, and the ground 
 covered with fresh-fallen snow. 
 
 " But One followed from the chapel, and as 
 He crossed the church-yard path, the friends 
 saw His garment white in the moonlight. 
 Then they knew it was the Chrrist, and remem- 
 bered that the ' Beautiful One in white gar- 
 ments ' ' condescends to men of low estate.' 
 
 " They were humbled, recalling how scorn- 
 fully they had turned from these poor folk and
 
 46 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 their simple ways. I will tell you my friend's 
 feeling in his own language. These are his 
 words, and he i-s speaking of Christ. 
 
 " ' I remembered, He did say, 
 Doubtless, that to this world's end, 
 Where two or three should meet and pray, 
 He would be in the midst, their friend.' 
 
 <l Then he knew that he had displeased the 
 Master, who has told us that he forever listens 
 to the ' deep sighing of the poor,' and he saw 
 the white garment vanishing. The Master 
 turned from him, and in his sorrow and contri- 
 tion he prayed thus : 
 
 " ' But not so, Lord ! It cannot be 
 That Thou indeed art leaving me — 
 Me, that have despised Thy friends. 
 Does my heart make no amends ? ' 
 
 " The Master listened and accepted his 
 prayer. My friend writes thus about it : 
 
 " ' God who registers the cup 
 Of mere cold water, for His sake
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 47 
 
 To a disciple rendered up, 
 Disdains not His own thirst to slake 
 At the poorest love was ever offered ; 
 And because it was my heart I proffered 
 With true love trembling at the brim, 
 He suffers me to follow Him.' 
 
 " Then, in his dream, my friend followed, 
 clinging to the hem of the Master's garment. 
 He felt that he could not be separated from 
 Him, that he must follow Him ' whithersoever 
 He goeth.' He dreamed that they passed 
 through the air together, and he found himself 
 in Rome, before St. Peter's. I continue the 
 story in his words : 
 
 And so we crossed the world and stopped. 
 For where am I, in city or plain, 
 Since I am 'ware of the world again ? 
 And what is this that rises propped 
 With pillars of prodigious girth ? 
 Is it really on the earth, 
 This miraculous Dome of God ? 
 Has the angel's measuring-rod 
 Which numbered cubits, gem from gem,
 
 48 CHRISTMAS-EVE. 
 
 'Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem, 
 
 Meted it out, — and what he meted, 
 
 Have the sons of men completed, — 
 
 Binding, ever as he bade, 
 
 Columns in this colonnade, 
 
 With arms wide open to embrace 
 
 The entry of the human race. 
 
 — What is it, yon building, 
 
 Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, 
 
 With marble for brick, and stones of price 
 
 For garniture of the edifice ? 
 
 Now I see ; it is no dream ; 
 
 It stands there and it does not seem : 
 
 Forever, in pictures, thus it looks, 
 
 And thus I have read of it in books 
 
 Often in England, leagues away, 
 
 And wondered how these fountains play, 
 
 Growing up eternally 
 
 Each to a musical water-tree.' 
 
 " It was Christmas-Eve in the Cathedral, and 
 the service had begun ; my friend takes up the 
 story thus : 
 
 " ' And I view inside, and all there, all, 
 As the swarming hollow of a hive,
 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 49 
 
 The whole Basilica alive ! 
 
 Men in the chancel, body, and nave, 
 
 Men on the pillar's architrave, 
 
 Men on the statues, men on the tombs.' 
 
 " My friend listened 
 
 " ' To the silver bell's shrill tinkling, 
 Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling 
 On the sudden pavement strewed 
 With faces of the multitude.' 
 
 " And he was again inclined toward harsh 
 criticism ; but he felt in his hand the hem 
 of the white garment, and saw the Master pass 
 through the kneeling multitude. I will describe 
 in his own words what followed : 
 
 " ' Yet I was left outside the door. 
 
 Why sat I there on the threshold-stone, 
 
 Left till He return, alone 
 
 Save for the garment's extreme fold, 
 
 Abandoned still to bless my hold ? 
 ****** 
 
 And joyously I turned, and pressed 
 The garment's skirt upon my breast.'
 
 5 O CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 " My friend continues : 
 
 " ' My heart beat lighter and more light ; 
 
 And still, as before, I was walking swift, 
 
 With my senses settling fast and steadying, 
 
 But my body caught up in the whirl and drift 
 
 Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying 
 
 On just before me, still to be followed, 
 
 As it carried me after with its motion. 
 ****** 
 
 Alone ! I am left alone once more 
 (Save for the garment's extreme fold, 
 Abandoned still to bless my hold) — 
 Alone, beside the entrance-door 
 Of a sort of temple, — perhaps a college.' 
 
 " He found himself in the hall of a German 
 university. The Professor was lecturing to 
 the students, and he said somewise things ; but 
 the foolish things so weighed upon my friend 
 that he was beginning to think there was neither 
 truth nor help to be found here, when the White 
 Garment passed by, and he knew that the Com- 
 passionate One had found here something 
 worthy of His presence. 

 
 CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 5 I 
 
 " My friend followed Him out into the moon- 
 light (it was still Christmas-Eve) thinking of 
 Him, 
 
 " ' When He trod 
 
 Very Man and very God 
 This earth, in weakness, shame, and pain, 
 Dying the death whose signs remain ' ; 
 
 and he knew at last that the Christ who died 
 for all, lives for all. 
 
 " Then he awakened and found himself still 
 in the little chapel, where he had fallen asleep 
 during the sermon." 
 
 The Archdeacon paused, but soon added : 
 " Whenever we are inclined to criticise harshly 
 those who differ from us, who do not think as 
 we do, or perhaps pray as we do, or live as we 
 do, let us remember this story ; and that if we 
 wish to live near to Jesus, never to be separa- 
 ted from Him, we must be always tolerant in 
 our judgments, wide and tender in our sympa- 
 thies ; never forgetting that we all are alike 
 cihldren of one Father. Thus only is it possi-
 
 5 2 CHRIS TMA S-E VE. 
 
 ble to follow ' the blessed steps of His most 
 holy life.' " 
 
 The dressing-bell rings, and the ladies obey 
 its summons. The gentlemen, also, are re- 
 minded of dinner, and the necessary prepara- 
 tions, and rise. 
 
 The party slowly scatters, while the " Cherub 
 Choir," gathered round the Archdeacon, bids 
 its tender good-night. 
 
 " A child's ' good-night ' is a benediction," he 
 said, finding himself alone with the Principal. 
 
 The latter lifted a window and stood silent. 
 
 "Is the snow still falling? — What do you 
 see? " asked the Archdeacon. 
 
 "The park in the moonlight. A purified 
 world," replied the Principal. 
 
 The Archdeacon approached, and over his 
 friend's shoulder looked out into the night, and 
 after a pause said only: 
 
 " The time draws near the birth of Christy
 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY 
 
 53
 
 CHSISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 
 Not yet daybreak, but I am already dressed 
 for the early Christmas service ! 
 
 I draw on my gloves, waiting for Agnes in a 
 queer little room, very unlike my familiar 
 quarters at Greycastle. The freshly-starched 
 and stiffened neatness of the white dimity toi- 
 let-table, the yellow-painted chimney-piece with 
 its ugly mahogany clock (whose big pendulum 
 must have belonged to the giant for whom 
 that tall chintz-covered chair was constructed), 
 the colossal curtained bed, — all these things 
 tell of a Highland inn of the better class. 
 
 55
 
 5 6 CHRIS TM A S-DA Y. 
 
 The huge objects contrast curiously with the 
 smallness of the remaining details of the room, 
 even to the diamond-shaped window panes ; 
 from these I watch for the dawn — but not 
 across the stately yews in their winter garb, 
 but across a narrow, crooked street in the 
 quaint old town of . 
 
 We came here last evening after dinner. 
 
 When the ladies were leaving the table, Mr. 
 Douglas (one of a fresh instalment of guests) 
 rose also, and apologized to our host for his 
 desertion, but explained that he had arranged 
 
 to take the ten o'clock train for , that he 
 
 might enjoy the early Christmas service in its 
 beautiful Abbey. The Archdeacon eagerly 
 proposed to join him. And as we crossed the 
 Hall to the drawing-room, Mr. Douglas, who 
 had been my neighbor at dinner, very kindly 
 invited Agnes and myself to be of the party. 
 Her warm entreaties decided my acceptance, 
 and at midnight the journey was accomplished, 
 and we were all comfortably lodged in this 
 queer little inn.
 
 DA Y BREAK. 57 
 
 But Agnes knocks, and amid her sweet but 
 somewhat breathless Christmas greetings we 
 seek our kind guides in the sitting-room. 
 
 The gentlemen await us, and in the grey 
 light we pass out into the crooked street. Its 
 quaint architecture, with its projections and 
 gables, was even more picturesque for its dim- 
 ness of outline. We followed its steep ascent, 
 the Archdeacon and Agnes leading. The 
 spirits and vigor of sixteen told in the elastic 
 step which pressed rapidly on, and the grave 
 scholar kept pace. 
 
 " There is no occasion for this haste," calmly 
 remonstrated Mr. Douglas ; " we do not yet 
 hear the chimes." 
 
 I welcomed this opportunity to enjoy more 
 leisurely the scene and my companion, and we 
 fell back, soon losing sight of the ecclesiastic 
 and the child. 
 
 The elderly Highland Laird had interested 
 me greatly in former years, and he seemed an 
 old friend. He had arrived the previous evening, 
 just before dinner, and while we were awaiting
 
 5 8 CHRIS TATA S-DA Y. 
 
 his appearance in the drawing.room, the Arch- 
 deacon had said : " He is so spiritual that I 
 ' cannot incarnate him.' Last week, when to- 
 gether at Loch Roy, in our midnight talk, ' the 
 star shone through him, and I expected him 
 to disappear at cockcrow.' " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " interrupted Miss Erskine ; " he is 
 only a dear mystic." 
 
 This morning he was inclined to be silent, 
 but I remember he once repeated half aloud : 
 
 " If ^sus came to earth again, 
 
 And walked and taught in field and street, 
 Who would not lay his earthly pain 
 Low at those heavenly feet ? " 
 
 Another bend in the crooked little street 
 with its gables and projections, and we recog- 
 nized at a short distance in advance the clear- 
 cut outline of Agnes's dark costume. 
 
 Her youthful bearing, her bloom, and the 
 undimmed brightness of the girlish face, now 
 turned to listen as the Archdeacon speaks, con- 
 trasted touchingly with the frail, bent figure at
 
 DA YBREAK. 59 
 
 her side, with its traces of suffering and sor- 
 row, its shadow of advancing years, and the 
 chastened expression of the sensitive features. 
 
 They are now just before us ; and in the 
 stillness it is impossible not to hear his words. 
 He is referring to the conversation of the pre- 
 vious evening, and alluding to the rule incum- 
 bent upon those of King Arthur's knights whose 
 privilege it was to guard the Holy Grail. " Its 
 meaning is," he said, " the keeping of the heart 
 and life aloof from whatever is unworthy of one 
 to whom a sacred trust has been committed. 
 This is your first communion. You will find in 
 the coming years, as these sacred experiences 
 repeat themselves, that their sweetness and 
 helpfulness depend much upon just this rule of 
 life. What I wish for you is this, that you 
 should live in the peace of God. Seek this 
 peace not only as an occasional refuge in trou- 
 ble, but as an abiding 'covert from the stormy 
 wind and tempest of this world.' " 
 
 We all met at the summit of a steep street, 
 descending to a mediaeval gate of massive
 
 60 CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 stone, a fragment of the old wall, which, 
 grimy with age, forms a rugged frame for the 
 picture opening beyond, of a wide moor 
 encircled by hills. 
 
 It is a pale earth, but now the mountains 
 blush with a tender glow from the heavens. 
 
 " How beautiful upon the mountains are 
 the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, 
 that publisheth peace ! " said Mr. Douglas. 
 
 We were leaving the town, or, more correctly, 
 skirting the suburbs, when we passed under 
 the feudal gate. Here, the road turns at right 
 angles toward the bridge's graceful arch. The 
 broad river (a crystal pavement this winter 
 morning) encompasses the precipitous cliff and 
 its forest of alabaster. 
 
 Among the pines and firs of the bleak rock 
 above are scattered the ruins of the Abbey's 
 monastic days — its palace and precincts — but 
 its solemn Norman Nave remains, and the 
 beautiful Gothic Choir, and above all rise the 
 square Western towers toward the fair morn- 
 ing skies.
 
 DAYBREAK. 6 1 
 
 The day dawns, and from the glorified East 
 float golden clouds. They seem a band of Fra 
 Angelico's angels, and through the keen, 
 frosty air comes down to us from the lofty 
 belfry the glad music of the Christmas chimes.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ABBEY. 
 
 We had climbed the parapet, having crossed 
 the ravine by a path rarely traversed, as the 
 usual approach to the Abbey is from the op- 
 posite or Northern side of the town. This 
 is why we were quite alone in the cloisters 
 while the steps leading to the great Western 
 doors were thronged. 
 
 It was so calm and beautiful that we lin- 
 gered, reading sometimes the inscriptions 
 telling of those who walk here no longer. 
 
 As we turned toward the church, Mr. Doug- 
 las said to the Archdeacon : " The Nave was 
 built by the Northmen, and it is indeed a fit- 
 ting temple for the sea-kings. In those noble 
 aisles one can almost hear the warriors singing 
 their Te Deum after the victory." 
 
 He ceased when we entered the Nave by a 
 
 62
 
 THE ABBEY. 63 
 
 small gate opening from the cloisters. The 
 Western doors were still closed upon the crowd 
 without. 
 
 Here all is silence. Grim knights are turned 
 to stone and sleep upon their tombs ; marble 
 countesses rest in a long repose. An empty- 
 saddle and a broken lance hang beneath that 
 feudal canopy of bronze, above a soldier's 
 grave, but they also are immovable. 
 
 Do the long vistas of grey columns stretch 
 on forever ; and the round arches, are they 
 eternal? 
 
 There is no sound in this still world but the 
 music of the Christmas chimes in the distant 
 belfry. 
 
 All is pale and colorless in the long aisles of 
 this grey Nave ; but beyond, the Choir is dark 
 and rich with carvings of dusky wood, and the 
 Eastern window above the Altar radiant in the 
 early sunbeams with the old, sweet story of the 
 youthful Mother and her Christ-child. The 
 Child sleeps, the Mother prays, and His angel- 
 band still linger in the skies.
 
 64 CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 But the Western doors were drawn heavily 
 aside, the crowd filled the aisles, — country-gen- 
 tlemen with their households, quaint dames 
 in their small, close bonnets, charity-schools of 
 orphan children, tradespeople and poor folk, 
 with red-coated soldiers from the neighboring 
 barrack. 
 
 We passed on into the Choir ; all was now 
 hushed in this strange company, this motley 
 congregation ; but in the far vista of the grey 
 Nave floated a song, and the white robes of the 
 clergy and choristers wound among the col- 
 umns, young voices singing : 
 
 " Softly the night is sleeping 
 
 On Bethlehem's peaceful hill ; 
 Silent the shepherds watching, 
 
 The gentle flocks are still. 
 But, hark ! the wondrous music 
 
 Falls from the opening sky : 
 Valley and cliff re-echo, 
 Glory to God on high ! 
 Glory to God ! it rings again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men !
 
 THE ABBEY. 65 
 
 " Day in the East is breaking ; 
 Day o'er the crimsoned earth ; 
 Now the glad world is waking, 
 Glad in the Saviour's birth ! 
 See, where the clear star bendeth 
 
 Above the manger blest ; 
 See, where the infant Jesus 
 Smiles upon Mary's breast. 
 Glory to God ! we hear again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 " Come with the gladsome shepherds, 
 Quick hastening from the fold ; 
 Come with the wise men pouring 
 
 Incense and myrrh and gold ; 
 Come to Him, poor and lowly, 
 
 Around the cradle throng ; 
 Come with your hearts of sunshine, 
 And sing the angels' song. 
 Glory fo God ! tell out again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 " Wave ye the wreaths unfading, 
 The fir-tree and the pine,
 
 66 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 Green from the snows of winter, 
 
 To deck the holy shrine ; 
 Bring ye the happy children ! 
 
 For this is Christmas morn ; 
 Jesus, the sinless Infant, 
 Jesus, the Lord, is born. 
 Glory to God, to God again ; 
 Peace, peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 
 
 The long procession entered the Choir, and 
 the clergy and the choristers passed into their 
 places ; a silence followed. 
 
 Then from above the kneeling multitude, a 
 calm voice said : " A little child shall lead 
 them." 
 
 The organ and the choristers reply, in Han- 
 del's music : " For unto us a Child is born, 
 unto us a Son is given, and the government 
 shall be upon His shoulder ; and His name 
 shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the 
 Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the 
 Prince of Peace." 
 
 The voice again: "All we like sheep have 
 gone astray. We have turned every one to his
 
 THE ABBEY. 67 
 
 own way, and the Lord hath laid on Him the 
 iniquity of us all." 
 
 A single chorister sang: " He shall feed His 
 flock like a shepherd ; and He shall gather the 
 lambs with His arm, and carry them in His 
 bosom, and gently lead those that are with 
 young." 
 
 The voice continued : " I said, there was 
 no place to flee unto, and no man cared for my 
 soul." 
 
 The music answered: " Come unto Him, all 
 ye that labor and are heavy laden, and He 
 shall give you rest. Take His yoke upon you, 
 and learn of Him, for He is meek and lowly 
 of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your 
 souls." 
 
 The voice prayed : " If thou, Lord, wilt be 
 extreme to mark what is done amiss, O Lord, 
 who may abide it ! " 
 
 The sweet response floated to the vaulted 
 roof: "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, 
 saith your God ; speak ye comfortably to Jeru- 
 salem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is 
 accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned."
 
 68 CHRIS TMA S-D. i Y. 
 
 The voice cried : " My flesh and my heart 
 faileth." 
 
 But a second chorister replied : " I know- 
 that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall 
 stand at the latter day upon the earth ; and 
 though worms destroy this body, yet in my 
 flesh shall I see God." 
 
 The earnest voice once more : " The sun 
 shall no more be thy light by day, neither for 
 brightness shall the moon give light unto thee, 
 but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting 
 light, and thy God thy glory." 
 
 Then the chorus of clergy and choristers an- 
 swered : " Lift up your heads, O ye gates ! and 
 be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! and the 
 King of Glory shall come in. 
 " Who is the King of Glory ? 
 " The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord 
 mighty in battle. 
 
 " Lift up your heads, O ye gates ! and be ye 
 lift up, ye everlasting doors ! and the King of 
 Glory shall come in. 
 
 " Who is the King of Glory ?
 
 THE ABBEY. 69 
 
 " The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of 
 Glory." 
 
 Then the voice said : " I will arise and go to 
 my father " ; and the clergy and the choristers 
 sang joyously : 
 
 " Hallelujah ! for the Lord God Omnipotent 
 reigneth. The kingdom of this world is be- 
 come the kingdom of our Lord and of His 
 Christ ; and he shall reign for ever and ever. 
 King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Halle- 
 lujah ! " 
 
 The triumphal hymn died among the 
 arches. 
 
 When seated, one glanced about in search 
 of the mysterious voice, but the place was 
 empty, and the number of clergy so large that 
 one could not trace it ; but later in the ser- 
 vice, .when we knelt for the collect, before 
 the sermon, that earnest voice repeated this 
 prayer : 
 
 " We beseech thee, O Lord, pour Thy grace 
 into our hearts ; that as we have known the 
 incarnation of Thy Son Jesus Christ by the
 
 •JO CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 message of an angel, so by His Cross and pas- 
 sion we may be brought into the glory of His 
 resurrection ; through the same Jesus Christ 
 our Lord. Amen." 
 
 When we rose and turned to the pulpit, in 
 the midst of the Choir, we found there the 
 dignified presence of a man of some fifty 
 years. He was at once so thoughtful and so 
 human that one felt he must surely help 
 others, if only because he so much wished to 
 help. 
 
 This was the message he brought us : 
 
 " The vision is yet for an appointed time, 
 but at the end it shall speak, and not lie; 
 though it tarry, wait for it ; because it will 
 surely come, it will not tarry." 
 
 He continued: "It seems to me that it is 
 just this conviction that, in this beautiful 
 world, with this mysterious gift of life, there is 
 a vision for each one of us, which gives enthusi- 
 asm to youth, but, alas ! bitterness sometimes 
 to the disappointment of mature life. 
 
 " There are two questions on my heart this
 
 THE ABBEY. J\ 
 
 morning for you and for myself, and I believe 
 that God has answered them forever. 
 
 " Is there for each one of us a vision, or in 
 other words a reality, of happiness and holi- 
 ness in this life ? I believe there is. 
 
 " Why then do we so often miss it ? I think 
 because we can never find it in self-seekinsr. 
 
 " I ask you to find it in God, in the love and 
 life and light He revealed to you that Christ- 
 mas-Night long ago. And I know that it is 
 possible to find it there. 
 
 " I believe in the preciousness of life, because 
 Christ shows me that I may live nobly. 
 
 ' I am happy in my life, because I have 
 found a Friend, who is entirely worthy of my 
 faith and love, and ' I am persuaded that neither 
 life nor death can separate me from Him' 
 
 " I therefore know the vision to be a truth. 
 
 " There are to-day in this church sad and aged 
 men and women, who have waited long for 
 this vision, for which every human heart has 
 panted, — in other words, for happiness. Here 
 are also ardent young spirits, who hope for it.
 
 72 CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 " I assure each one of you that this Sacra- 
 mental hour is ' the appointed time,' and ' the 
 vision is surely come,' — for Christ is come. 
 He is with us this beautiful Christmas morning. 
 
 " Bring your hearts to this Communion Ser- 
 vice, whether broken with sorrow or radiant 
 with joy, and receive from Him His Christmas 
 gift of peace. 
 
 " One Christmas-Eve, about fifteen centuries 
 ago, an old man was praying alone, in a 
 strange and lonely place. It was a cave in the 
 mountains, far away in the land called ' Holy ' 
 since that holy night when the Christ-child was 
 born in Bethlehem. 
 
 " St. Jerome is the name of this aged man. 
 He was thinking that Christmas-Eve of our 
 Saviour as a little child, just as we are thinking 
 to-day ; and this was his prayer : ' O Holy 
 Child, I will give thee all my gold.' This was 
 his Christmas offering. 
 
 " Then in the deep stillness of the night, in 
 that solitary place, it seemed to him that a 
 voice answered : ' I do not want thy gold ; the
 
 THE ABBEY. 73 
 
 heavens and the earth are Mine ; give that to 
 My poor. But give to Me thy sin, thy sorrow, 
 thy despair, and I will give to thee My peace.' 
 
 " To this gracious love and mercy I commit 
 you." 
 
 The preacher was silent. There was a stir, 
 and the larger part of the congregation left the 
 Choir. The Communion Service followed. 
 
 A " brooding calm " rested upon the church. 
 The pictured window glowed with a fuller radi- 
 ance, and the sunbeams aud shadows of that 
 fair morning came and went among the col- 
 umns and the arches and the sculptured saints. 
 
 " The exceeding great love of our Master, 
 and only Saviour, Jesus Christ, thus dying for 
 us," was very real that Christmas morning. 
 
 " Before this rapture and outpouring, what 
 are we ? " 
 
 The Holy Service is over, but while we still 
 kneel, the choristers softly chant : 
 
 " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart 
 in peace, according to thy word : 
 
 " For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
 
 74 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 " Which thou hast prepared before the face 
 of all people ; 
 
 " To be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and 
 to be the glory of thy people Israel."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 
 
 We were all gathered round the luncheon- 
 table, a party of twenty, in the long dining- 
 room at Greycastle, whose great windows look 
 upon the straight avenues, with their vistas of 
 aged trees. The stately and formal landscape- 
 gardening suggests that of a French chateau, and 
 had for me the interest of a distant memory. 
 
 " When did you return ? " inquired Mr. Ers- 
 kine. 
 
 " An hour ago," answered the Archdeacon. 
 " We met the train from Edinburgh about 
 eleven.'' 
 
 " I hope you enjoyed the Abbey ? " continued 
 our host, turning kindly to Agnes. 
 
 " It was all beautiful," replied the young 
 girl, her cheek glowing with the rich remem- 
 brance. 
 
 75
 
 /6 CHRIS TMA S-DA ) '. 
 
 My pretty neighbor at the table (little Al- 
 fred's mother) interposed : " I met one of the 
 Canons the other day, who mentioned that the 
 Master of St. Michael's was expected, and 
 would probably have a share in the Christmas 
 Services. Was he the preacher at the early 
 Service ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Douglas, " he arrived last 
 evening from Oxford." 
 
 "And you must positively go to-morrow ?" 
 interrupted Lady Margaret, with friendly re- 
 gret, addressing her words to me. 
 
 "Yes, there is no reprieve," I answered. 
 " We must take the ' limited ' to London, and 
 meet the 'tidal train ' for Paris the succeeding 
 day." 
 
 " When does your boat sail from Marseilles ? " 
 continued my questioner. 
 
 " On Tuesday ; indeed we have accepted an 
 invitation to dine with our friends in Palermo 
 on Monday week, and a dinner engagement is 
 inexorable." 
 
 "You go to meet the Spring," said the Prin- 
 cipal.
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. J J 
 
 "No," smiled the Professor, "this lady- 
 carries with her the Spring," glancing at 
 Agnes. 
 
 " Will you not go with me this afternoon to 
 the Curling pond?' : asked Captain Erskine 
 across the table, of the Professor. "Our High- 
 land games are novel to you, and we have my 
 father's example ; he is never absent at Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 " My tenants would miss me, were I not 
 with them at their Christmas games," observed 
 our host. 
 
 A footman approached my hostess, saying 
 in a low tone : " There is a message from the 
 shepherd's cottage, and his wife begs you will 
 come. There has been a bad accident, a man 
 hurt on the railroad, and they have taken him 
 to her cottage." 
 
 " Say to her messenger that I will be there 
 within an hour, but before he returns he is to 
 stop for Dr. Murray, explain every thing, and 
 ask him to meet me at the cottage." 
 
 Mrs. Erskine exchanged a glance with her
 
 78 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 daughter, who passed into the seat of the 
 hostess, as she rose. Mr. Douglas offered his 
 escort. She smiled an assent, saying to me : 
 " Come also, and with Agnes, and we may have 
 a quiet talk returning over the moor." 
 
 It was not long before we all assembled in 
 the porch, my hostess with her basket of restora- 
 tives and appliances, which she usually carried 
 in her visits to her sick tenants. 
 
 We walked rapidly down the avenue of yews, 
 into the pale forest ; how cold it was when we 
 reached the bleak moor, where the short after- 
 noon was already waning ! 
 
 " // was the zvititer zvild, " 
 
 said Mr. Douglas, drawing his cloak about him. 
 
 "You draw on your wraps," remarked Mrs. 
 Erskine, " quite as if you were wrapping some- 
 body else." 
 
 Beyond the moor is a sheltered glen, where 
 in the spring-time a mountain stream sings 
 cheerily in the sunshine. The rugged weather 
 had silenced and imprisoned that happy little
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. yg 
 
 brook, but we traced her white scarf among 
 the firs and pines, until we approached a 
 thatched cottage. 
 
 We crossed a small paved court-yard in front 
 of the hut, and through the tiny window panes, 
 looked directly into the kitchen, bright and 
 warm in the firelight of the old-fashioned 
 hearth opposite. This was a deep recess, fur- 
 nished with stone benches on either side. The 
 pots and kettles hanging from the crane were 
 the pride of the good housewife's soul. An 
 old man occupies one of the benches, dividing 
 his attention between his pipe, his mug of ale, 
 and his sick grandchild. 
 
 From the dresser with its rows of shining 
 plates the shepherd's wife, Mrs. Ramsay, is 
 taking a pitcher. A small, round face flattened 
 at the window announces our arrival ; and 
 from the snows of the little court-yard we step 
 directly into the warmth of the hearth, amid 
 Mrs. Ramsay's curtsies and apologies to Mrs. 
 Erskine. 
 
 " It was a' sae sudden an' I didna ken whaur
 
 So C 'HRIS T. U. I S-DA \ '. 
 
 to turn, an' I hadna a minute to think, an' he 
 sae bad, an' nae time to lose ; an' I said that 
 to my gudeman, but ye ken, my Leddy, he is 
 a verra impeding mon." 
 
 " There is certainly no time to lose," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Erskine. " Is the doctor here?" 
 
 " Yes, my Leddy." 
 
 " Take me to him at once, these ladies and 
 this gentleman remain here." 
 
 Mrs. Erskine disappeared with the cottager, 
 whom she had silenced for — perhaps five min- 
 utes ! 
 
 We waited in the kitchen, and Agnes, who 
 really loved children, beguiled the little sick 
 boy from his grandfather's arms into hers, sit- 
 ting upon the bench beside them ; she was 
 soon singing the little fellow to sleep with this 
 lullaby : 
 
 " Now the sun, so weary growing, says : ' O let me 
 stay ! ' 
 Goes to bed and shuts his eyes, and calmly sleeps 
 away. 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, bye,
 
 THE SHEPHERD' S COTTAGE. 8 1 
 
 My baby shall do even so, 
 
 My darling still must lie. 
 Then the tree, that now was rustling, says : 'What 
 
 can it be ? 
 As the sun no longer shineth, sleep I peacefully.' 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, bye, 
 
 My baby shall do even so, 
 
 My darling still must lie ; 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, lullaby, 
 
 My baby still must lie. 
 
 " Then the bird, so sweetly singing, says : ' What can 
 it be ? 
 Since the tree no longer rustleth, sleep I peace- 
 fully.' 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, bye, 
 My baby shall do even so, 
 My darling still must lie. 
 ' Then the hare, his long ears pointing, says : ' What 
 
 can it be ? 
 Since the bird no longer singeth, sleep I peacefully.' 
 Bye, bye, bye, bye, 
 My baby shall do even so, 
 My darling still must lie ;
 
 82 CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, lullaby, 
 My baby still must lie. 
 
 "Then the hunter, no more sounding, says : ' What 
 can it be ? 
 Since my blast no hare upstarteth, sleep I peace- 
 fully.' 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, bye. 
 Now the fair moon downward gazing, says : ' What 
 can it be ? 
 
 No hunter nigh ? 
 
 No hare doth spring ? 
 
 No bird doth sing ? 
 
 No tree dolh sigh ? 
 
 No sun doth shine ? ' 
 Shall baby mine awake then keep ? — 
 
 No, no, no, no, 
 
 My darling doth its eyelids close, 
 
 My babe is fast asleep ; 
 
 Bye, bye, bye, lullaby, 
 
 My babe is fast asleep ! " 
 
 The door at the side of the kitchen, through 
 which Mrs. Erskine had disappeared, opened. 
 She returned looking grave, and said to Mr.
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. S3 
 
 Douglas in a low tone : " This is a bad busi- 
 ness. The man is killed without doubt — that 
 is, the doctor says it is impossible to save him. 
 I think he should be told of his condition, but 
 I should like to have your judgment ; will you 
 see him ? " 
 
 " What is he like ? " 
 
 " Stolid and impenetrable, but a poor wan- 
 derer upon the earth, and his sufferings quite 
 dreadful," she answered, sadly. " I fancied 
 him soothed by Agnes's lullaby, for his features 
 relaxed, and his face was less grim and blanched, 
 but only for a moment." 
 
 " Let us go to him," said Mr. Douglas, 
 and they left us. 
 
 During our midnight talk in my own quarters 
 at Greycastle, Mrs. Erskine repeated to me all 
 that had followed in the homely little room, 
 while we waited in the kitchen. 
 
 The doctor was speaking to the sick man, 
 who heard nothing of their approach, as the 
 door opened behind the bed. Already the 
 honest Scotch surgeon had decided to deal
 
 84 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 frankly with the stricken man, whose helpless- 
 ness he respected. 
 
 " You are very ill," he began. 
 
 "Can ye stop my pain?" interrupted the 
 sufferer, gruffly. 
 
 " I can do very little for you, my man," 
 answered the doctor. " This is a serious in- 
 jury, and you have not long to live ; but if you 
 have any messages for your friends, I will do 
 my utmost to deliver them." 
 
 " There 's naebody wha cares," said the 
 dying man, briefly, relapsing into his impene- 
 trable silence. 
 
 " There is One who cares," said Mr. Douglas, 
 
 gently. 
 
 Obeying Mrs. Erskine's motion, the surgeon 
 offered his chair to the old Laird, and withdrew. 
 
 "Do you know the love of God?" asked 
 Mr. Douglas, abruptly. 
 
 " No," was the only answer. 
 
 A silence followed, broken only by an occa- 
 sional moan. The wounded man lay with his face 
 to the wall, his eyes closed, his teeth set, ghastly
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 85 
 
 and dishevelled ; his shirt not only neglected, 
 but dragged and torn in the struggle of the 
 accident. 
 
 The stillness and solemnity of the darkened 
 room contrasted strangely with the bustle and 
 glare in the kitchen, where we still waited. 
 Here the sick child cried miserably. A general 
 effort to quiet him resulted in an increase of 
 noise. He had been disturbed by the attempt 
 of his excellent but very fussy mother to take 
 him from Agnes, and she was now jogging him 
 upon her knee with affectionate activity. The 
 little fellow was by this time almost distracted, 
 when Agnes plunged into the mel6e, captured 
 and carried him in her strong, young arms to 
 the window, out of the smoke of his grand- 
 father's pipe, the chatter and bustle of his 
 voluble parent, and the heat of the huge fire 
 of Highland peat. 
 
 She looked through the small window panes, 
 amusing the fretted child with the scene in the 
 little paved court-yard without. There, through 
 the snows, in the winter twilight, drew near
 
 86 CHRISTMAS-DA Y. 
 
 the child's father, the shepherd, his dog follow. 
 ins - , bringing; with him the sick lamb, which has 
 a place at the hearth at night. 
 
 "Tak care o' this weakly ane, will ye, 
 father ? " he said, entering. 
 
 The arrival was a fortunate one for Agnes's 
 purpose, indeed for us all ; and the poor babe 
 forgot his sorrows, as we all do sometimes, 
 in tending a dumb creature. 
 
 But soon the child wearied, and with his 
 little hand upon her cheek, drawing Agnes's 
 attention from the sick lamb to himself, plead- 
 ed, " Sing, sing." 
 
 Seated in a high-backed chair, the lamb at 
 her feet, and the infant on her shoulder, the 
 young girl sang to a pathetic melody, not 
 unlike, in its monotonous wail, certain of the 
 slave songs one associates with the Southern 
 States of America. 
 
 The hymn found its way into the sick-room ; 
 let us follow it there. 
 
 " There were ninety and nine that safely lay 
 In the shelter of the fold,
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 87 
 
 But one was out on the hills away, 
 Far off from the gates of gold — 
 Away on the mountains wild and bare, 
 Away from the tender Shepherd's care. 
 
 " ' Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine ; 
 Are they not enough for Thee ? ' 
 But the Shepherd made answer : "T is of mine 
 Has wandered away from me ; 
 And although the road be rough and steep 
 I go to the desert to find my sheep.' 
 
 " But none of the ransomed ever knew 
 How deep were the waters crossed ; 
 Nor how dark was the night the Lord passed 
 through 
 Ere He found His sleep that was lost. 
 Out in the desert He heard its cry — 
 Sick and helpless, and ready to die. 
 
 " ' Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way 
 That mark out the mountain's track? ' 
 ' They were shed for one who had gone astray 
 Ere the Shepherd could bring him back.'
 
 8 8 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 ' Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and torn ? ' 
 ' They are pierced to-night by many a thorn.' 
 
 " But all through the mountains, thunder-riven, 
 And up from the rocky steep, 
 There rose a cry to the gate of heaven : 
 ' Rejoice ! I have found my sleep ! ' 
 And the angels echoed around the throne : 
 ' Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own ! ' 
 
 Early in the song the sick man had turned 
 his head on the pillow to listen. He was 
 quieter, but looked haggard and exhausted. 
 The hymn culminated in a peal of thanksgiving, 
 and Agnes, absorbed in thought, sang on re- 
 gardless of consequences. But the babe and 
 the lamb were both awakened, and the lamb 
 bleated piteously. The ear of the sick man 
 caught the sound. Mrs. Erskine said his face 
 turned grey, and his dark eyes were misty and 
 wandering when he muttered : " It 's cauld 
 here for a laddie out on the muir a winter night 
 wi' the sheep," and he shivered ; " I think 
 daddy might hae ta'en me hame to supper."
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 89 
 
 " I don't like this," said Mrs. Erskine to Mr. 
 Douglas; "no more hymns to-night, and the 
 doctor must be at his post." She left the 
 room, but returned with him directly. 
 
 But the sick man attempted to rise in his 
 bed, and shouted him back. " I '11 hae nane 
 but this mon : he is a mon o' God," he cried 
 excitedly, clinging to Mr. Douglas ; and for the 
 next hour the old Laird was the only person 
 who could soothe his paroxysms of delirium. 
 The doctor then returned and said firmly : 
 " Remedies must be used to reduce the fever, 
 and at once." 
 
 The scene was growing painful, and Mrs. 
 Erskine, finding she could no longer be of use, 
 left the room. 
 
 I was indeed thankful to see her, for I was 
 Avorn threadbare by the shepherd's wife. As 
 my hostess entered, Mrs. Ramsay was con- 
 cluding this sentence : "I was sae weak, Miss, 
 when they brought him in, that ye wad hae 
 wondered how muckle I could do, and Ramsay, 
 puir mon, is nae gude when he 's wanted. Sae
 
 90 CHRISTMAS-DA V. 
 
 a' fa's on me, though I ne'er speak o' it. Ram- 
 say is verra gude to mind the sheep, but in the 
 hame, — " 
 
 Mrs. Erskine appeared and effaced the shep- 
 herd's wife. 
 
 She drew me to the window and said : " I 
 could bear it no longer. What a Christmas for 
 that poor waif ! I have little heart for a state 
 dinner, but we must return as soon as Mr. 
 Douglas can be spared." 
 
 " But is he useful in the sick-room ? " I asked, 
 involuntarily. 
 
 "The doctor can do nothing without him," 
 she replied. "For the last hour that dying 
 man, in his wanderings, has clung to the dear 
 old Laird with a look in his eyes like that of a 
 grateful hound. It is not so much what he 
 docs in the sick-room, as what he is, and this 
 poor fellow trusts him. But you have had a 
 long afternoon," she continued; " how has it 
 passed with you ? " 
 
 " In admiration of Agnes," I replied. " First 
 for her success in putting her boy and her
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 9 1 
 
 lamb to sleep, and latterly for her success in 
 awakening them." 
 
 Mr. Douglas himself now returned from the 
 sick-room, very grave. 
 
 " Can we be of further service ? " asked Mrs. 
 Erskine. 
 
 " No," he answered ; " he is unconscious, and 
 the doctor will remain through the night ; but 
 yes, he asks you to deliver this note at his 
 house, and to send the wine from the castle." 
 
 Agnes laid her sleeping child to rest, and we 
 all turned from the warm little kitchen out 
 into the cold of the snows, the solitude of the 
 moor. Around and above, 
 
 The night with her stillness, 
 The stars with their calm. 
 
 THE FAREWELL LETTER. 
 
 ONE soft Southern noon, about two months 
 later, I lingered upon the terrace of our hotel 
 in Palermo, which looks upon the Mediterra- 
 nean. The hotel had been, in an earlier cen-
 
 92 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y. 
 
 tury, the palace of an Italian noble, and this 
 terrace is a fragment of decayed magnificence. 
 Its pavement is of richly colored tiles, and the 
 tall, decorated vases are graceful with the 
 drooping aloe. 
 
 I watch beside their long leaves for Agnes, 
 who, with her governess, is gone to the 
 banker's in search of our English letters, hav- 
 ing heard from a servant with a Moorish face 
 and turbaned hair, that the boat from Naples 
 arrived last night. She is not among the 
 groups passing through the palms upon the 
 shore. 
 
 The picturesque costumes of the peasants 
 from the valley, bringing their olives and fruit 
 to market, mingle curiously with the conven- 
 tional dress of the English tourists, and here 
 and there move the black cassock and dark 
 broad hat of the priest. 
 
 But now, the old Sicilian guard, in his crim- 
 son vest, and with the bearing and features of 
 an Arabian Sheik, turns from his monotonous 
 patrol, and drawing near to my post, upon the
 
 THE FAREWELL LETTER. 93 
 
 terrace, hands me a munificent bunch of roses 
 and daisies. " For the English Signorina," 
 but missing Agnes, he withdraws disappointed. 
 Shelley's picture of the Bay of Naples might 
 have been sketched from this terrace. 
 
 " The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 
 The purple noon's transparent might ; 
 
 The breath of the moist earth is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 
 Like many a voice of one delight, 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods', 
 The City's voice itself, is soft like Solitude's. 
 
 " I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 
 With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore, 
 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown." 
 
 But Agnes approaches through the sculptured 
 Arch (whose Italian name is The Happy Gate). 
 She turns beside the fountain, radiant in the 
 sunbeams, follows the yellow wall about which
 
 94 CHRISTMAS-DA V. 
 
 cluster the luxuriant vines, and with a smile of 
 recognition, waves her letters. 
 
 She passes swiftly among the scattered 
 groups upon the shore, and disappears, for 
 she must enter the hotel from the opposite 
 side of the quadrangle. The little organette 
 plays its pleasant jingle, and a Sicilian girl sings 
 " Santa Lucia." 
 
 But Agnes steps upon the terrace from a 
 window at the back. 
 
 "Behold!" she exclaims, counting her let- 
 ters. " Seventeen between us, and among 
 them the long-expected missive from Grey- 
 castle, — Mrs. Erskine herself ! May I not read 
 it aloud ? " 
 
 She offers me a chair, but choosing for her- 
 self a place upon the Algerine rug at my feet, 
 begins the letter. 
 
 Greycastle, Feb. \Zth. 
 My Dear Friend : 
 
 How long it seems since you left us, and how I 
 deplore my silence ! but I will not dwell upon the 
 hindrances. You know that I would gladly have 
 written earlier had it been feasible.
 
 THE FAREWELL LETTER. 95 
 
 Your fragrant violets enabled us to trace you as 
 far as Nice, and I hear that you are now happy in 
 your " Earthly Paradise," Palermo. To Agnes, 
 her Winter must be a chapter from the " Arabian 
 Nights," and how she must enjoy the Carnival ! 
 
 Now for ourselves. 
 
 Our festivities were long since concluded, and our 
 daily life has renewed its even tenor. Mr. Erskine 
 is much in his studio, Mary so busy with her schools, 
 and Duncan absent with his regiment in Ireland. 
 And for our Christmas group, Lady Margaret is re- 
 turned to Hertfordshire, and her school-boys to 
 Harrow ; the Principal to his university, and the 
 Archdeacon to the cloisters of his Cathedral, while 
 the Professor is gone to Dresden. 
 
 But it is of our dear old Laird and the sick man 
 in the shepherd's cottage that I wish to write to- 
 night. That afternoon you left us Mr. Douglas 
 came to me to tell me he had been again to the 
 sufferer and found the poor fellow conscious. He 
 begged Mr. Douglas to remain near him until the 
 end. The doctor called, with his report. He 
 thought it possible the wounded man might linger a 
 few weeks. And so it has been, and Mr. Douglas 
 is still with us. 
 
 We have been much in the cottage, and it is touch- 
 ing to see this withered human plant revive in the 
 sunshine of the old Laird's kindliness. O the blessed
 
 y6 CHRIS TMA S-DA } '. 
 
 influence of a human faith ! The poor bruised 
 heart trusts this human goodness, and so is learn- 
 ing to trust the Divine goodness. 
 
 The physical life of this poor waif is slowly 
 waning, but the moral life is dawning. I wish you 
 might see him now, neat in appearance, gentle in 
 manner — in a word, humanized ; and with Agnes's 
 little friend playing beside him. 
 
 Do you remember two circumstances which I 
 related to you at midnight in your room at Grey- 
 castle, after that sad Christmas evening in the cot- 
 tage ? 
 
 One was Mr. Douglas's impressive question in 
 the sick-room, " Do you know the love of God ? " 
 
 The other circumstance was the poor fellow's 
 excitement in listening to Agnes's Shepherd hymn. 
 In his delirium he thought himself a child again, 
 "keeping " sheep upon the moor. 
 
 But he explained to Mr. Douglas later that he 
 had been a shepherd's son, and how the hymn con- 
 fused his troubled brain. Then he added : " Tell 
 me about the Shepherd in that story." So Mr. 
 Douglas told him in his simple way. 
 
 Thus weeks have gone, the wanderer nursed and 
 cheered in the shepherd's home by all, from the 
 voluble but kind-hearted Mrs. Ramsay to the 
 youngest bairn. But it is the old Laird who is the 
 spring of this poor creature's life.
 
 THE FAREWELL LETTER. 97 
 
 He has but just left the library, after relating this 
 incident. It seems the sick stranger has talked 
 little of himself, either of his career or his feelings, 
 beyond this, that he had been a sailor, and led a 
 wild, roving life. And since the mention of Agnes's 
 hymn he has listened with pleasure to any words 
 from Mr. Douglas, but this morning he said just 
 this — no more : " Mr. Douglas, I ken the love o' 
 God." 
 
 Is not this enough ? 
 
 It is so late that I must say good-night. But be- 
 side me, on the table, lies a letter, by this evening's 
 post, from the Archdeacon. It closes with one of 
 his favorite quotations. I send the extract, my ab- 
 sent friend, for your comfort and mine, and with 
 a thought of this touching friendship between the 
 Laird and the wanderer, begun in the shepherd's 
 cottage that Christmas-night. 
 
 " Let us trust. We do not meet and part by 
 chance. We move like stars. We do not choose 
 those we love. God has chosen them for us." 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 M. G. E.
 
 98 CHRIS TMA S-DA Y 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 I have ventured to give the story of St. Christopher in the 
 language of a clergyman of the Church of England, revered 
 amongst us. It is an extract from a sermon addressed to chil- 
 dren. 
 
 My apology for the liberties taken with Richter's dreams 
 (I include the story told by the Professor as his personal 
 experience), and with Mr. Browning's poem of "Christmas- 
 Eve," must be that these changes were necessary to adapt 
 them for my purpose. , . 
 
 The following expressions are borrowed : those used by the 
 Archdeacon with regard to Mr. Douglas (in the first chapter 
 of the second part), " I cannot incarnate him " ; and again, 
 " The star shone through him, and I expected him to disap- 
 pear at cock-crow" ; and also the question, " Do you know 
 the love of God ? " and the answer given in the letter. 
 
 The remaining poems are well known, and require no ex- 
 planation. 
 
 A. D. F.
 
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