ht
and thankfulness for the "good tidings of great joy." Another and
another Christmas hymn was raised, and never were carols sung by happier
voices; and the decorations proceeded all the better and more suitably
beneath their influence. They scarcely knew how time passed away, till
Henrietta, turning round, was amazed to see Uncle Geoffrey standing just
within the door watching them.

"Beautiful!" said he, as she suddenly ceased, in some confusion; "your
work is beautiful! I came here prepared to scold you a little, but I
don't think I can. Who made that wreath and Monogram?"

"She did, of course, papa," said Beatrice, pointing to her cousin. "Who
else could?"

"It is a very successful arrangement," said Uncle Geoffrey, moving about
to find the spot for obtaining the best view. "It is an arrangement to
suggest so much."

Henrietta came to the place where he stood, and for the first time
perceived the full effect of her work. It was placed in front of the
altar, the dark crimson covering of which relieved the shining leaves
and scarlet berries of the holly. The three letters, I H S, were in
the centre, formed of small sprays fastened in the required shape; and
around them was a large circle of holly, plaited and twined together,
the many-pointed leaves standing out in every direction in their
peculiar stiff gracefulness.

"I see it now!" said she, in a low voice full of awe. "Uncle, I did not
mean to make it so!"

"How?" he asked.

"It is like Good Friday!" said she, as the resemblance to the crown of
thorns struck her more and more strongly.

"Well, why not, my dear?" said her uncle, as she shrunk closer to him in
a sort of alarm. "Would Christmas be worth observing if it were not for
Good Friday?"

"Yes, it is right uncle; but somehow it is melancholy."

"Where are those verses that say--let me see--

'And still Thy Church's faith Shall link,
In all her prayer and praise,
Thy glory with Thy death.'

So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite right."

Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer: and Beatrice said,
"It is a very odd thing, whenever any work of art--or, what shall I call
it?--is well done, it is apt to have so much more in it than the author
intended. It is so in poetry, painting, and everything else."

"There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand, when we talk of the
spirit in which a thing is done," said her father: "But have you much
more