listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling him
the story, and how she used to make him see the shepherds and hear the
sheep bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory used to make
his heart jump.

"I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me they
were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn't fear them any
more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a baby." There was
a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. "I used to peek through under to
see the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddling
clothes were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!" He paused, and I
could hear the men breathing.

"But one Christmas eve," he went on in a lower, sweeter tone, "there was
no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it and went away to
college, and learned to think that it was only a child's tale and was
not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose my
grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas,
in the slums of a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil's
arms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with a
bitter ache in my heart--for I had put it all behind me--I suddenly
found myself peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's wonder at
the Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves that His
name was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins.
Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew I had
called out, 'Oh! can He save me?' It was in a little mission meeting on
one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of
thing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across
the aisle to me and said: 'Why, you just bet He can!' His surprise that
I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope that
perhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul,
and"--stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a
little break in his voice--"He hasn't failed me yet; not once, not
once!"

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool of
myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things.
Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his dark
eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring harder than ever into
the fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openly
wiping the tears a