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the many windows of one large room. Within, a huge fire of mighty logs
lit up with distinctness only the middle space, and fell with variable
illumination on a silent group about the hearth.

On one side a mother sat with her cheek upon her hand, her elbow on
the table, gazing steadily into the fire; on the other side were two
children, a girl and a boy; he on a cushion, she in a low chair. Some
half-felt sadness repressed for these little ones the usual gay
Christmas humor of the hopeful hour, commonly so full for them of
that anticipative joy to which life brings shadowy sadness as the
years run on.

Now and then the boy looked across the room, pleased when the leaping
flames sent flaring over floor and wall long shadows from the tall
brass andirons or claw-footed chair and table. Sometimes he glanced
shyly at the mother, but getting no answering smile kept silence. Once
or twice the girl whispered a word to him, as the logs fell and a
sheet of flame from the hickory and the quick-burning birch set free
the stored-up sunshine of many a summer day. A moment later, the girl
caught the boy's arm.

"Oh! hear the ice, Hugh," she cried, for mysterious noises came up
from the river and died away.

"Yes, it is the ice, dear," said the mother. "I like to hear it." As
she spoke she struck a match and lit two candles which stood on the
table beside her.

For a few minutes as she stood her gaze wandered along the walls over
the portraits of men and women once famous in Colonial days. The great
china bowls, set high for safety on top of the book-cases, tankards,
and tall candelabra troubled her with memories of more prosperous
times. Whatever emotions these relics of departed pride and joy
excited, they left neither on brow nor on cheek the unrelenting
signals of life's disasters. A glance distinctly tender and distinctly
proud made sweet her face for a moment as she turned to look upon the
children.

The little fellow on the cushion at her feet looked up.

"Mamma, we do want to know why Christmas comes only once a year?"

"Hush, dear, I cannot talk to you now; not to-night; not at all,
to-night."

"But was not Christ always born?" he persisted.

"Yes, yes," she replied. "But I cannot talk to you now. Be quiet a
little while. I have something to do," and so saying, she drew to her
side a basket of old letters.

The children remained silent, or made little signs to one another as
they watched the fire. Meanwhile t