Bill. The old man, his high
forehead shining from his recent ablutions, his bushy beard hiding his
new tie, sat silent, even wistful, stroking the home-made gifts that
lay upon his knees. Jean as she played, wondered what long-ago
memories were misting his hazel eyes.

When the singing came to an end, little Loll, without an invitation,
rose and announced:

"_Now_, I'm going to speak my piece."

He walked to the middle of the room and made a low, circular bow. In
the effort to recall that "piece" he had spoken the year previous in
Sunday-school, his brow puckered and his grey eyes took on a look of
intense thought. His emphasis fell in strange places:

"'Twas _the_ night before Christmas
An' all _through_ the house
Not-ta creature . . . was . . . Was _stirring_
_Not_-teven a mouse . . . not-_teven_ a mouse . . .
Not-teven a _mouse_!"

All efforts to remember further having proved vain, Lollie, far from
being embarrassed, bowed low again with the poise of one who has
recited brilliantly, and took his seat amid the applause. . . .

Harlan rose at last to say goodnight. From Loll's bunk, where she was
helping the sleepy boy to bed, Ellen called after him her Christmas
wishes. Jean slipped into her coat and followed the young man out to
the porch.

The night had turned wondrously clear, but it did not seem cold to the
two who stood silently looking out on its beauty.

"Never was there such a night for Christmas carols, Gregg," said the
girl after some minutes had gone by. "Wait."

She darted into the cabin and returned almost immediately with her
violin tucked beneath her coat.

"I may never have a chance like this again. . . . I'm going up as far
as the Lookout with you. Come."

They climbed up through the white, star-lit silence to the top of the
hill. From the height they looked down through the weird half-light
reflected from the snow. The formless waters kissed the ermine-wrapped
shores of the Island. The sweet, hoarse voice of the sea had in it the
cadence of happy child calls. There was an effect of illimitable
space, of wonderful freedom. Up from the north into the night-blue
bowl of the sky mystic lights unfurled themselves in pulsing, wreathing
chiffon-like streamers of changing rose and violet, green and amber,
red and gold--unfurled . . . trembled . . . rippled into opal splendor,
and then swiftly and softly swept across the heavens and entangled
themselves in the calm