e home to see them!
Back then to her kitchen fire. There are more of dear Tom's letters yet.
How manly they are,--and how womanly. She will read them all!--will she
ever dare to read them all again?

Yes,--she reads them all,--each one twice over,--and his soldier
diary,--which John Wildair saved and sent home, and, as she lays it
down, the clock strikes twelve. Christmas day is born!--

"And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh."
Laura fairly repeated this aloud. She knew that the other carcel must be
wound again. She dressed herself for the fight thoroughly. She ran in
and trusted herself to kiss the children. She opened the lee-door
again, and crept round again into the storm,--familiar now with such
adventure. Did the surf beat as fiercely on the rocks? Surely not. But
then the tide is now so low! So she came to her other tower, crept up
and wound her clock-work up again, wiped off, or tried to wipe off, what
she thought was mist gathering on the glasses, groped down the stairway,
and looked up on the steady light above her own home. And the Christmas
text came back to her. "The star went before them, and stood above the
place where the young child was."

"A light to lighten the Gentiles,--and the glory of my people Israel!"

"By the way of the sea,"--and this Laura almost shouted aloud,--"Galilee
of the Gentiles, the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, and
to them who sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up."
"Grant it, merciful Father,--grant it for these poor children!" And she
almost ran through the heavy drifts, till she found the shelter again of
her friendly tower. Her darlings had not turned in their bed, since she
left them there.

And after this Laura was at rest. She took down her Bible, and read the
Christmas chapters. It was as if she had never known before what
darkness was,--or what the Light was, when it came. She took her Hymn
Book and read all the Christmas Hymns. She took her Keble,--and read
every poem for Advent and the hymn for Christmas morning. She knew this
by heart long ago. Then she took Bishop Ken's "Christian Year,"--which
Tom had given for her last birthday present,--and set herself bravely to
committing his "Christmas Day" to memory:--

"Celestial harps, prepare
To sound your loftiest air;
You choral angels at the throne,
Your customary hymns postpone;"

and thus, dear girl, she kept herself from thinkin