e
don't talk to him any more," she pleaded, "not till he's had his supper."
She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him. His eyes followed
her as she hovered about him. For the first time, since he had entered
the room, they looked human.

They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in
Mary's bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have been
some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensor
completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: "just to
keep us all company," as Mary had insisted.

The old fanatic's eyes passed from face to face. There was almost the
suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.

"A strange supper-party," he said. "Cyril the Apostate; and Julius who
strove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancer
before the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered together
in the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord."

"Are you, too, a Christian?" he asked of Joan.

"Not yet," answered Joan. "But I hope to be, one day." She spoke
without thinking, not quite knowing what she meant. But it came back to
her in after years.

The talk grew lighter under the influence of Mary's cooking. Mr.
Baptiste could be interesting when he got away from his fanaticism; and
even the apostolic Mr. Simson had sometimes noticed humour when it had
chanced his way.

A message came for Mary about ten o'clock, brought by a scared little
girl, who whispered it to her at the door. Mary apologized. She had to
go out. The party broke up. Mary disappeared into the next room and
returned in a shawl and bonnet, carrying a small brown paper parcel. Joan
walked with her as far as the King's Road.

"A little child is coming," she confided to Joan. She was quite excited
about it.

Joan thought. "It's curious," she said, "one so seldom hears of anybody
being born on Christmas Day."

They were passing a lamp. Joan had never seen a face look quite so happy
as Mary's looked, just then.

"It always seems to me Christ's birthday," she said, "whenever a child is
born."

They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance.

She stooped and kissed the little withered face.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-
like figure growing smaller. It glided in and out among the people.

CHAPTER XI

In the spring, Joan, a