the only oblongs of blackness in the illuminated block, and he shivered,
shrugging his shoulders.

"The same as ever!" he said to himself. "I might have known she would never
change. Any one else, on Christmas Eve, after the letter I wrote her, would
have softened a little. But I might have known. She is hard as nails! Of
course, it was my fault in the first place to leave her as I did. But when
I acknowledged it, and when I wrote that letter on Christmas Eve, I thought
Angelina might feel differently." He looked at his watch. "Nearly half-past
nine," he muttered. "I may as well go home. She said she wanted to be let
alone; that Christmas meant nothing to her. I don't dare to call,--on my
only sister! I suppose she is there all alone, and here I am all alone,
too. What a pity! If I saw the least sign--"

Just then there was the spark of a match against the darkness framed in by
the window opposite. A hand and arm shone in the flicker of light across
the upper sash. A tiny spark, tremulous at first, like a bird alighting on
a frail branch, paused, steadied, and became fixed. In the light of a
small taper the man caught a glimpse of a pale, long face in a frame of
silver hair. It faded into the background. But above the candle he now saw,
with arms outstretched as it seemed toward himself, a pink little angel
with gauzy wings.

The man's heart gave a leap. Sudden memories thronged his brain, making him
almost dizzy. At last they formulated into one smothered cry. "The
Christmas Angel! It is the very same pink Angel that Angelina and I used to
hang on our Christmas tree!"

In three great leaps, like a schoolboy, he crossed the street and ran up
the steps of Number 87. The Christmas Angel seemed to smile with ineffable