In the street of candles a woman dressed all in black had picked up the poor old Noah's ark and was looking at it wildly. She was a widow who had just lost her only child, a little son, and she was in a state of morbid¹ bitterness bordering on distraction².

 

When the second woman with the two little ones came up and begged for the toy, something hard and sullen³ and cruel rose in the widow's heart, and she refused angrily to give up the thing. She hated those two boys who had been spared when her own was taken. She would not make them happy.

 

"No, you shall not have it," she cried, clutching the Noah's ark fiercely. "I will destroy it."

 

The poor woman and the children followed her wistfully. The little boys were crying. They were cold and hungry and disappointed. They had come so near to something pleasant. They had almost been lucky; but the luck had passed over their heads to another.

 

The woman in mourning strode on rapidly, the thoughts within her no less black than the garments which she wore. She hated the world; she hated the people who lived in it. She hated Christmas time, when every one seemed merry except herself. And yes, yes! Most of all she hated children. She clenched⁴ her teeth wickedly; her mind reeled.

 

Suddenly, somewhere, a chorus of happy voices began to sing the words of an old carol:—

 

"Holy night! Peaceful night!

All is dark save the light,

Yonder where they sweet vigil keep,

O'er the Babe who in silent sleep

Rests in heavenly peace."

Softly and sweetly the childish voices ascended⁵ from the street. The woman in black stopped short, breathing hard. She saw the band of choristers standing⁶ in a group on the sidewalk and in the snow, their hats pulled down over their eyes, their collars turned up around their ears, their hands deep in pockets. In their midst rose the tall wooden cross carried by a little fellow with yellow hair. They sang as simply and as

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