that she had gone, gone on the wings of light and song, leaving him dumb, alone in the dark.
Later, Jeanie, faithful friend, had brought to him, “the wee Lassie, sir,” and drawing the shades high, had flooded the room with moonlight; then left him alone with his little comforter.
Long he had stood looking out on the golden path of light and glory that seemed to stretch from the great Beyond, across the sea, through the window, and to encircle him and the tiny daughter, his blessing, his joy, his little “Christmas Star.” She had indeed lighted him through the dark way, comforted him, helped him to accept the cup of sorrow with fortitude.
She had been christened “Dorothy” for her grandmother, and had grown in grace and beauty. There had been no lack of loving care, willing hearts and hands had served her; first, for love of the mother, who gave her birth, later for love of herself.
The song ceased. Then quick dancing footsteps, the opening and closing of the library door, and the singer was by his side. Throwing her arms about his neck, she covered his face with kisses. Stepping back and holding his face between her hands, she looked long and lovingly at him. “Father, dear, I have kissed the sorry lines all away except those back of your eyes.” Then settling herself in his arms she fell silent,—still for a time.
“Father, dear, the Christmas Carols seem always to make you sorrowful. I have noticed, too, when we sing the carols in church, that so many people look sad. Often, I have seen tears in their eyes. Only the children look really happy. Why is that, father?”
“It was a message of joy that came upon the midnight clear, wasn’t it?” Then nestling closer, she went on softly: “You know I was singing the carol to mother just now, the one she loved the best, because I could just feel her happy thought, and I wanted to be happy with her, then suddenly, I thought you would be remembering, so I came.”
A thoughtful pause, and then—“I wonder why she seems so far away to you! Perhaps you shut her out thinking that she is dead, and don’t understand that she is with us in the thought of love she left all about us. You know that is what mother lettered her own self over the center window in my nursery, ‘God is Love.’
“Jeanie said she watched her paint it and the other one too: ‘Thou shalt not be afraid,’ and while she painted, she explained to Jeanie. Sometimes, it seems as if I could hear her explaining to me. Of course, I can not tell what she says,—it isn’t words exactly,—but it’s just as if that love were a great white cloud, wrapping me round and round wherever I am, and holding me safe from harm,—like your arms, father, dear. You see,—love is just,—why it’s everything. Jeanie says, ‘love never dies.’”
The twilight shadows were falling fast around them, but the Bethlehem Star of peace and joy had risen in both their hearts. Father dear had caught a new note in the Christmas Carol. “Love never dies.”