probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in
there; there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.

The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips.
Blessed happiness had come to her in time for Christmas--a strange
and heavenly happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to
one who loves, for it had been more than the mere life of this man
she had asked of God: it had been his mind.

He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking
down at him.

After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid
it aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.

Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still
beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about
singing under her breath. They both heard her.

Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:

"I am trying to get well--to start again--better--live more--nobly.
. . . Take your chance, too."

"If you wish, Drene."

"Yes. I was not--very--well. I had been ill--very--a long while
. . . And you are not to clean the automatic. . . . Only your
own-soul. . . . Ask help. . . . You'll get it. . . . . I did. . . .
And--all that is true--what we believed--as boys. . . . I know.