“It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near to earth
To touch their harps of gold.”
So sang the clear, full, childish voice. Singularly melodious, thrilling, sympathetic, it floated up and out, seeming to envelope in a tender, joyous harmony all who came within its range.
In the library “Father dear” sat with pen suspended and moistened eyes, as the notes of the Christmas Carol were borne in upon him. The thronging memories carried him back to that wonderful Christmas morning eight years before, when the sweet singer was born.
She had come in a flood of golden sunlight, when Christmas bells were chiming, happy voices singing, and the joy of life seemed rampant upon all the earth. The “doctor friend” had come to him in this same library and had said:
“The Christmas day has brought to you and your house God’s blessing—the gift of a little child.”
Together they had gone to that quiet, peaceful room, and found mother with the baby girl upon her arm. “A tiny image of your own dear self,” he had fondly said, and with the passing years, the child had kept that strong likeness to her mother, both in character and features.
Later he had gone about the house attending to the many things they had planned for others. Like two children, they had always kept many of the Christmas customs: hung up their stockings, had a huge Christmas tree for all the household, remembering every one in a way that would bring the most real joy, given to each child friend some longed for treasure, fed the birds and put a lighted candle in the window to guide the Christ Child. Each Christmas they had tried to bring comfort to some sorrowing heart, sharing their joy, letting their light shine.