And farther down the church went the slanting sunbeams and here and there laid a halo of glory about this and that head down there.
But indeed there were no saints among them, and it was just as well.
All had their frailties, and all knew them.
Perhaps, indeed, there might be one or two who had a good many frailties; but Lord! who on such a day would find fault with his neighbor?
Each felt so sure of himself, so pleased with himself, so overwhelmingly tender and gentle as a child. They smiled to each other, and pressed close together, so all could get seats; it was pleasant to see the elegant, distinguished Consul With arise to give his place to old Madam Speckbom. It was really a lovely Christmas day, and the church was warmed, so they did not need their foot-bags.
And memory dwelt on the long line of festivals and merry gatherings, now standing without the door. They were just in the mood to take a long walk in the gay winter sun, and go home with good appetites to meet the fragrance of roast beef at the door.
And from the lofty, sunlit arches a holy Christmas feeling, pacifying like a good conscience, settled down upon the whole congregation.
But the church was filled with roaring tones. The organist played a festival prelude with broad, triumphant harmonies. And when the song began, it was sung boldly and joyously by the entire congregation; the most did not need once to look in the book, for it was the noble old Christmas song:
“At this, the blest old Christmas-tide,
We rightly look for pleasure.”