"My door is on the latch to-night,
The hearth-fire is aglow.
I seem to hear swift passing feet,
The Christ Child in the snow.

"My heart is open wide to-night
For stranger, kith, or kin;
I would not bar a single door
Where Love might enter in!"

And then a footstep, drawing ever nearer, sounded crunch, crunch, in
the snow. Letty pushed her chair back into the shadow. The footstep
halted at the gate, came falteringly up the path, turned aside, and
came nearer the window. Then a voice said: "Don't be frightened Letty,
it's David! Can I come in? I haven't any right to, except that it's
Christmas Eve."

That, indeed, was the magic, the all-comprehending phrase that swept
the past out of mind with one swift stroke: the acknowledgment of
unworthiness, the child-like claim on the forgiving love that should
be in every heart on such a night as this. Resentment melted away like
mist before the sun. Her deep grievance--where had it gone? How could
she speak anything but welcome? For what was the window open, the fire
lighted, the door ajar, the guiding candle-flame, but that Love, and
David, might enter in?

There were few words at first; nothing but close-locked hands and wet
cheeks pressed together. Then Letty sent David into the children's
room by himself. If the twins were bewitching when awake, they were