IX
Up in the choir-loft, chokily Guy whispered to Margaret, “Can’t we end with ‘Holy Night,’ again? Nothing else seems to fit, after that.”
She nodded, her eyes wet. It had not been thought best to ask the congregation to sing. There was no knowing whether anybody would sing if they were asked. Now, it seemed fortunate that it had been so arranged, for somehow the congregation did not look exactly as if it could sing. Certainly not George Tomlinson, for he had a large frog in his throat. Not Asa Fraser, for he had a furious cold in his head. Not Maria Hill, for though she hunted vigorously, high and low, for her handkerchief,
she was unable to locate it, and the front of her best black silk was rapidly becoming shiny in spots—a fact calculated to upset anybody’s singing. Not even Miss Jane Pollock, for though no tears bedewed her bright black eyes, there was a peculiar heaving quality in her breathing, which suggested an impediment of some sort not to be readily overcome. And it may be safely said that there was not a baker’s dozen of people left in the church who could have carried through the most familiar hymn without breaking down.
So the four in the organ loft sang “Holy Night” again. They could not have done a better thing. It is a holy night, indeed, when a messenger from heaven comes down to this world of ours, though he take the form of an old, old man with a peaceful face—but with eyes which can flash once more with a light which is not of earth, and with lips upon
which, for one last mighty effort, has been laid a coal from off the altar of the great High Priest.
“Silent Night! Holy night!
Darkness flies, all is light!
Shepherds hear the angels sing—
Hallelujah! hail the king!
Jesus Christ is here!”
