Old Marg, after the embarrassment of the first moment, took everything in with one hawk-like glance—the Christmas greens upon the clean, white walls, the curtained space in the rear which hid some pleasant mystery, the men and women on the platform.
At the organ sat a young girl, leaning upon the now silent keys, her face toward the young man who was speaking. Old Marg could not take her eyes from this face—white, serious, sweet, set in a halo of pale golden hair. The sight of it aroused strange feelings in the bosom of the old outcast. Fascinated, tortured, bewildered, she sat and gazed. It was long since she had thought of her youth. This girl reminded her of that forgotten time. Like a violet flung upon a refuse-heap, the thought of her own innocent girlhood lay for an instant upon the foul mass of memories accumulated by sixty-miserable years. "I was light-haired, too!" ran old Marg's thoughts. "Light-haired, an' light-complected, like her!"
The perfume of that thought breathed across her soul, and was gone. Still she gazed from under her shaggy brows, and, without meaning to listen, found herself hearing what the speaker was saying. He was telling without rhetoric or cant the story of Christ, and with simplicity and tact presenting the lesson of His life.
"This joy of giving, of sacrificing for others," the young man was saying in his earnest, musical voice, "so far beyond the joy of receiving, is within the reach of every human being. Think of that! The poorest man or woman or child who breathes on earth to-night may know this joy, may give some pleasure, some help, some comfort, to some fellow-creature. Whether it be a human creature or a dumb beast, matters not. It is all one in God's sight, being an act of love and kindness and sacrifice."
Old Marg looked down upon her squalid rags; her rough features writhed with a scornful smile. "That's a lie!" she muttered. "What could the likes of me do for anybody, I'd like to know!"
Still she listened; but at last, as the warmth stole through her sodden garments, and into her chilled veins, and the peace of the place penetrated the turbulent recesses of her soul, the man's voice became like a voice heard in a dream, and the old outcast slept.
A confused sound greeted her awakening. Some one was playing the organ jubilantly; people were moving about—girls with trays loaded with steaming dishes; children were talking and laughing excitedly. The curtain had been drawn, and a great Christmas-tree almost blinded her with its splendor. She stared about in bewilderment. She looked at the tree, at the people, at her own foul rags. A fierce revulsion of feeling swept over her. Rage, shame, a desire to get out of sight, to be swallowed up in the darkness and misery which were her proper element, seized and mastered her. She staggered to her feet. A young girl approached her with a tray of tempting food. The sight and smell of it goaded the starved creature to madness. She could have fallen upon it like a wolf, but instead she pushed the girl roughly aside and fumbled dizzily at the door-knob.
A hand was laid upon her arm. The girl with the sweet, white face was looking at her with a friendly smile.
"Won't you stay and have something warm to eat before going into the cold?" the girl asked gently.