r the additional fact that there is little rest for
the saint who makes her dwelling here--in this abode there prevails the
quaint custom of watching the death of the old year and the birth of the
new. It is made the occasion of religious and heart-searching rite. As
the solemn hour of midnight draws on, a silence falls upon the family,
all of whom, with the exception of the newest infant, are present. It is
the family festival of the year.

"'And what will they be doing at your home, Mr. Craven?' inquires the
minister. The contrast that rose before my mind was vivid enough, for
having received my invitation to a big dance, I knew my sweet sisters
would be having a jolly wild time about that moment. My answer, given I
feel in a somewhat flippant tone, appears to shock my shinny captain of
the angelic face, who casts a honor-stricken glance at his mother, and
waits for the word of reproof that he thinks is due from the padre's
lips.

"But before it falls the mother interposes with 'They will miss
you greatly this evening.' It was rather neatly done, and I think I
appreciated it.

"The rite proceeds. The initial ceremony is the repeating of a verse of
Scripture all round, and to save my life nothing comes to my mind but
the words, 'Remember Lot's wife.' As I cannot see the appropriateness of
the quotation, I pass.

"Five minutes before the stroke of twelve, they sing the Scottish
paraphrase beginning, 'O God of Bethel.' I do not suppose you ever heard
it, but it is a beautiful hymn, and singularly appropriate to the
hour. In this I lend assistance with my violin, the tune being the very
familiar one of 'Auld Lang Syne,' associated in my mind, however, with
occasions somewhat widely diverse from this. I assure you I am thankful
that my part is instrumental, for the whole business is getting onto my
emotions in a disturbing manner, and especially when I allow my eyes to
linger for a moment or two on the face of the lady, the center of the
circle, who is deliberately throwing away her fine culture and her
altogether beautiful soul upon the Anakim here, and with a beautiful
unconsciousness of anything like sacrifice, is now thanking God for the
privilege of doing so. I have some moments of rare emotional luxury,
those moments that are next to tears.

"Then the padre offers one of those heart-racking prayers of his that,
whether they reach anything outside or not, somehow get down into
one's vitals, and stir up remorses,