he
had never heard of Mother McNeil and her home until two nights before,
never had dressed a Christmas tree before, or before gone where he was
not asked, but things of that sort no longer mattered. What mattered
was that he had found Frances, that it was the Christmas season, and
he was at last learning the secret of its hold on human hearts and
sympathies. There was no time to talk, but as he looked he watched,
with eyes that missed no movement that she made, the fine, fair face
that to him was like no other on earth, and, watching, he wondered if
she, too, wondered at the naturalness of it all.

The years that had passed since he had seen her had left their
imprint. She had known great sorrow, also she had traveled much, and,
though about her were the grace and courage of old, there was
something else, something of nameless and compelling appeal, and he
knew that she, too, knew the loneliness of life.

Quickly they worked, and greater and greater grew the confusion of
the continually appearing boxes and bundles, and, knee-deep, Mother
McNeil surveyed them, hands on her hips, and once or twice she brushed
her eyes.

"It's always the way, my son. If you trust people they will not fail
you. When we learn how to understand there will be less hate and more
help in the world. Jenkins, bring that barrel of apples and box of
oranges over here and get a knife for Mr. Van Landing to cut the bread
for the sandwiches. It's time to make them. Matilda, call Abraham in.
He can slice the ham and cheese. There must be plenty. Boys are
hollow. Frances, have you seen my scissors?"

Out of what seemed hopeless confusion and chaotic jumbling, out of
excited coming and going, and unanswered questions, and slamming of
doors, and hurried searchings, order at last evolved, and, feeling
very much as if he'd been in a football match, Van Landing surveyed
the rooms with a sense of personal pride in their completeness. Around
the tree, placed between the two front windows, were piled countless
packages, each marked, and from the mantelpiece hung a row of bulging
stockings, reinforced by huge mounds of the same on the floor,
guarded already by old Fetch-It. Holly and cedar gave color and
fragrance, and at the uncurtained windows wreaths, hung by crimson
ribbons, sent a welcome to the waiting crowd outside.

If he were not here he would be alone, with nothing to do. And
Christmas eve alone! He drew in his breath and looked at Frances. In