e conception gave him the deepest
satisfaction, and he wanted nothing more.

Ursula, accustomed to these pictures from her childhood,
hunted out their detail. She adored Fra Angelico's flowers and
light and angels, she liked the demons and enjoyed the hell. But
the representation of the encircled God, surrounded by all the
angels on high, suddenly bored her. The figure of the Most High
bored her, and roused her resentment. Was this the culmination
and the meaning of it all, this draped, null figure? The angels
were so lovely, and the light so beautiful. And only for this,
to surround such a banality for God!

She was dissatisfied, but not fit as yet to criticize. There
was yet so much to wonder over. Winter came, pine branches were
torn down in the snow, the green pine needles looked rich upon
the ground. There was the wonderful, starry, straight track of a
pheasant's footsteps across the snow imprinted so clear; there
was the lobbing mark of the rabbit, two holes abreast, two holes
following behind; the hare shoved deeper shafts, slanting, and
his two hind feet came down together and made one large pit; the
cat podded little holes, and birds made a lacy pattern.

Gradually there gathered the feeling of expectation.
Christmas was coming. In the shed, at nights, a secret candle
was burning, a sound of veiled voices was heard. The boys were
learning the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub. Twice
a week, by lamplight, there was choir practice in the church,
for the learning of old carols Brangwen wanted to hear. The
girls went to these practices. Everywhere was a sense of mystery
and rousedness. Everybody was preparing for something.

The time came near, the girls were decorating the church,
with cold fingers binding holly and fir and yew about the
pillars, till a new spirit was in the church, the stone broke
out into dark, rich leaf, the arches put forth their buds, and
cold flowers rose to blossom in the dim, mystic atmosphere.
Ursula must weave mistletoe over the door, and over the screen,
and hang a silver dove from a sprig of yew, till dusk came down,
and the church was like a grove.

In the cow-shed the boys were blacking their faces for a
dress-rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with opened, speckled
wings, in the dairy. The time was come to make pies, in
readiness.

The expectation grew more tense. The star was risen into the
sky, the songs, the carols were ready to hail it. The star was
the sign