resent it?"

Dr. Kemp was silent. The question was a telling one and required
thought; therefore he was surprised when Ruth answered for him. Her
quiet voice carried no sense of hysteric emotion, but one of grave
grace.

She addressed her father; each had refrained from appealing to the
other. The situation in the light of their new, great love was strained
and unnatural.

"I should endeavor that he should feel no lack," she said; "for so far
as Christmas is concerned, I am a Christian also."

"I do not understand." Her father's lips were dry, his voice husky.

"Ever since I have been able to judge," explained the girl, quietly,
"Christ has been to me the loveliest and one of the best men that ever
lived. You yourself, Father, admire and reverence his life."

"Yes?" His eyes were half closed as if in pain; he motioned to her to
continue.

"And so, in our study, he was never anything but what was great and
good. Later, when I had read his 'Sermon on the Mount,' I grew to see
that what he preached was beautiful. It did not change my religion; it
made me no less a Jewess in the true sense, but helped me to gentleness.
To me he became the embodiment of Love in the highest,--Love perfect,
but warm and human; human Love so glorious that it needs no divinity
to augment its power over us. He was God's attestation, God's symbol of
what Man might be. As a teacher of brotherly love, he is sublime. So I
may call myself a christian, though I spell it with a small letter. It
is right that such a man's birthday should be remembered with love; it
shows what a sweet power his name is, when, as that time approaches,
everybody seems to love everybody better. Feeling so, would it be wrong
for me to participate in my husband's actions on that day?"

She received no answer. She looked only at her father with loving
earnestness, and the look of adoration Kemp bent upon her was quite
lost.

"Would this be wrong, Father?" she urged.

He straightened himself in his chair as if under a load. His dark,
sallow face seemed to have grown worn and more haggard.

"I have always imagined myself just and liberal in opinion," he
responded; "I have sought to make you so. I never thought you could leap
thus far. It were better had I left you to your mother. Wrong? No;
you would be but giving your real feelings expression. But such an
expression would grieve--Pardon; I am to consider your happiness." He
seemed to swallow something, and hastily