her hands over her eyes and glanced at the clock. But what the hour was she
never noticed, for her gaze was filled with something else. Beside the
clock, in the spot where she had laid it a few minutes before, was the
Christmas Angel. But now, instead of lying helplessly on its back, it was
standing on rosy feet, with arms outstretched toward her. Over its head
fluttered gauzy wings. From under the yellow hair which rippled over the
shoulders two blue eyes beamed kindly upon her, and the mouth widened into
the sweetest smile.

"Peace on earth to men of good-will!" cried the Angel, and the tone of his
speech was music, yet quite natural and thrilling.

Miss Terry stared hard at the Angel and rubbed her eyes, saying to herself,
"Fiddlestick! I am dreaming!"

But she could not rub away the vision. When she opened her eyes the Angel
still stood tiptoe on the mantel-shelf, smiling at her and shaking his
golden head.

"Angelina!" said the Angel softly; and Miss Terry trembled to hear her name
thus spoken for the first time in years. "Angelina, you do not want to
believe your own eyes, do you? But I am real; more real than the things you
see every day. You must believe in me. I am the Christmas Angel."

"I know it." Miss Terry's voice was hoarse and unmanageable, as of one in a
nightmare. "I remember."

"You remember!" repeated the Angel. "Yes; you remember the day when you and
Tom hung me on the Christmas tree. You were a sweet little girl then, with
blue eyes and yellow curls. You believed the Christmas story and loved