andles of the chancel.

"It's the bishop," whispered Gay to Lloyd. "Old Bishop Chartley. He is
Madam's uncle, and he always comes down for this service."

Then even her irrepressible tongue grew still, for, in a deep voice that
filled the chapel, he began to read the story of the three wise men who
followed the star with their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
until it led them to Bethlehem's manger. An old, old story, but it
bloomed anew once more, as it has bloomed every year since first the
wondering wise men started on their quest.

The bishop closed the Book. "How shall we keep the King's birthday?" he
asked. "What gifts shall we bring? To-day in a quaint old tale, beloved
in boyhood, I found the answer. It is the story of a strange country
called Cathay, and this is the way it runs:

"'The ruler thereof is one Kublan Khan, a mighty warrior. His government
is both wise and just, and is administered to rich and poor alike,
without fear or favour. On the king's birthday the people observe what
is called the White Feast. Then are the king and his court assembled in
a great room of the palace, which is all white, the floor of marble and
the walls hung with curtains of white silk. All are in white apparel,
and they offer unto the king white gifts, to show that their love and
loyalty are without a stain. The rich bring to their lord pearls,
carvings of ivory, white chargers, and costly broidered garments. The
poor present white pigeons and handfuls of rice. Nor doth the great king
regard one gift above another, so long as all be white. And so do they
keep the king's birthday.'"

Lloyd, leaning forward, listened with such breathless interest that it
attracted Gay's attention. "That's just like your pink story," she
whispered. Lloyd gave her fingers a responsive squeeze, but never took
her eyes from the benign old face. The bishop was applying the story to
the audience before him.

"As these pagans of Cathay kept the feast of Kublan Kahn, so we may make
of Christmas a White Feast, whose offerings are without stain. We need
make no weary pilgrimages across the trackless sands, as did those
Eastern sages. 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my
brethren' (these are the King's own words), 'ye have done it unto me.'
At our very doors we may give to Him, through His poor and needy.

"But there is another way. You are all familiar with the motto of this
house, and the legend which gave rise to it.