of
receiving, is within the reach of every human being. Think of that! The
poorest man or woman or child who breathes on earth to-night may know
this joy, may give some pleasure, some help, some comfort, to some
fellow-creature. Whether it be a human creature or a dumb beast, matters
not. It is all one in God's sight, being an act of love and kindness and
sacrifice."

Old Marg looked down upon her squalid rags; her rough features writhed
with a scornful smile. "That's a lie!" she muttered. "What could the
likes of _me_ do for anybody, I'd like to know!"

Still she listened; but at last, as the warmth stole through her sodden
garments, and into her chilled veins, and the peace of the place
penetrated the turbulent recesses of her soul, the man's voice became
like a voice heard in a dream, and the old outcast slept.

A confused sound greeted her awakening. Some one was playing the organ
jubilantly; people were moving about--girls with trays loaded with
steaming dishes; children were talking and laughing excitedly. The
curtain had been drawn, and a great Christmas-tree almost blinded her
with its splendor. She stared about in bewilderment. She looked at the
tree, at the people, at her own foul rags. A fierce revulsion of feeling
swept over her. Rage, shame, a desire to get out of sight, to be
swallowed up in the darkness and misery which were her proper element,
seized and mastered her. She staggered to her feet. A young girl
approached her with a tray of tempting food. The sight and smell of it
goaded the starved creature to madness. She could have fallen upon it
like a wolf, but instead she pushed the girl roughly aside and fumbled
dizzily at the door-knob.

A hand was laid upon her arm. The girl with the sweet, white face was
looking at her with a friendly smile.

"Won't you stay and have something warm to eat before going into the
cold?" the girl asked gently.

Old Marg shook the hand from her arm.

"No!" she snarled. "I don't want nothin'! Let me go!"

With a patient smile Angela opened the door.

"I am sorry you will not stay," she said softly. "It would give me great
pleasure. There is a gift for you on the tree, too. It is Christmas Eve,
you know!"

A hoarse, choking sound came from the woman's lips. She pushed by into
the vestibule. Angela followed.

"If you should feel differently to-morrow," she said, in her kind,
gentle voice, "come here again, about eleven o'clock. I shall be here."
Without w