tion of that which the Father had forgiven or frowned upon. "Sin no more," Christ said to the woman of scarlet. Loving her with the utmost of tenderness and compassion, yet He knew His duty in pointing out the way for her to go.

It must not be thought that because the Master's heart was warm and tender, overflowing with love for the humblest or the highest of His Father's children, that He was without strength and firmness of moral character. In no sense was he a weakling. On the contrary, when the occasion demanded he roused a fire, an intensity of feeling that made the wicked tremble in His presence. Do we need further reminder of this than to recall the scene of the money-changers in the temple? From Jesus mild is suddenly evolved Christ militant.

In reverence we call Him Prince of
Peace,

And so he was, and is, and e'er shall
be;

For patiently He labored to release Mankind-His sheep-from bonds of tyranny.

But when the need was great His anger

rose,

And wrath was written on the Face divine

He drove the money-changers, scourged with blows,

Out of His holy house, to Peace a shrine.

It is well to recall this incident if ever we are prompted to feel that the Master lacked strength and forcefulness of character and personality.

But such occasions as we have just considered are rare in the history of His earthly mission. Not often did His anger rise, and then always in a righteous cause. Mostly His mein as He trod the dusty roads of Palestine, or gathered with His followers on the sea-shore or the mountain side,

was serenely calm. He taught by love and persuasion, drawing men to Him by the warmth of His feeling

for them.

His path was not one of roses. Thorns also were strewn along His way, just as at the end in a literal sense they were pressed down upon His brow. He had many trials, much grief; indeed, He came to be known as the "Man of Sorrows." Yet He taught happiness and His hands and heart reached out to bless and comfort those to whom sorrow and affliction had come.

His vision was broader than ours. He saw beyond this vale. He knew our needs. He sympathized with our weakness and suffering. Above all, He sought our eternal good.

Power and dominion were within

His grasp, but He did not seek His own glory. He was in the world to help mankind, and to that service He gave Himself with the utmost devotion. In Him we have the highest type of self-sacrifice the race has ever known. It meant for Him not only life-long and endless toil, but the cruel tortures of Calvary. "Greater love hath no man."

He taught us our greatest lesson of humility and upward striving. He is for us and for all the world a safe and sure guide. He is a haven of refuge for the weary and heavy-laden. He is "The Life and the Light," leading on to eternal glory and peace.

What thoughts, then, should fill our minds and stir our hearts as again we approach the Christmas tide? Should they not be warm, gentle thoughts that bring a flood of tenderness? How can anyone, thinking of Him, be aught but loving and kind? So much misery in the world, so much of heartache and sorrow! So much, too, of hate and envy!

What would He do if He were here, walking and talking with men as once He did through the vales of Palestine? Would He not seek to comfort and to bless? Would he not succor those in need and comfort those whose hearts were sad? Yea, even though it meant again Golgotha and the rood, He would give His life to the service and the happiness of human-kind.

And so, too, can we each in his little measure-bring more of joy and sunshine into the world. Love and gentleness-that is all we need. The rest will be easy if we bring only these. No more unkindness, no more cruelty. No more hate and envy with all the misery-making brood that follow them. A new life, a new world! And a surer hope of that eternal joy which the Master died to give to us.

I left my packing when the telephone rang and hurried in a happy flutter to the living room. Jim had promised to call and tell me how much baggage I could take after he had seen Hendricks, the new mail car. rier. I did so want to take all the pretty things I'd spent the summer and fall in making for this home going Christmas.

If only Jim were going, too-but he couldn't be pursuaded to leave little Dorothy Hardin who had pneu monia nor old lady Granville whose rheumatics had been worse the last week. I pushed these unpleasant intrusions from the whirl in my mind as I took down the receiver. "Hello, Barbie"-how Jim's voice sounded-

strange

"I wanted to run home and tell you instead of 'phoning, but I've just had a call to the Bend and didn't have time. We've just—just learned that the bridge over Spring Creek has been crushed by a big snow-slide and the -the mail coach can't get through."

I tried hard to keep back the quick protesting sob, but I know Jim heard it.

"Can't can't I go home then?-" I wailed like a child.

By Jim's answer I knew two things, first he felt just as badly over my disappointment and, secondly, because someone was in the office, he could not tell me so in the way he would like to.

the road will not "Hendricks says be passable for weeks, but it may not be as bad as that. They're working on a horse trail around the point now, and they may be able to get the road cleared in a few days. Anyway you're all ready to go just as soon as they do get it opened. I'm awfully sorry, dear."

There was a pause. I knew Jim was hoping for a word from me attempting at least to assure him that it did not really matter so very much. But I could not say it. All the hateful months I had spent in the little, ugly frontier town, so different in every way to my own home, seemed to rise in rebellion and I wanted to scream: "I will go! I'll wade through banks of snow! I'll not stay in this beastly place for Christmas andfor "

With an effort I kept these words from bursting forth but I could not bring myself to say any others.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," came

a second time in Jim's low concerned voice and again he waited; but I did not speak.

"I can't tell just when I'll be home," he finally went on in a tone I knew he was trying to make professional. "Little Dorothy is worse this morning. They are waiting for me now to go to the Bend, I'll get home as soon as I can. You'd better go over to Aunty Doane's or 'phone for one of the girls to come and stay with you until I get back. Good-by dear, I'm awfully sorry."

And after another hopeful pause I heard him reluctantly put the receiver on the hook.

I crumpled over on the window seat and gave myself up to the hysterical sobs that had been smothering me.

I'd been planning this trip for well since the very moment of my coming to Sunnyvale. That first evening Jim had read my ill-concealed disapproval of the place and had sug gested that we'd go home for the next Christmas and that of course we wouldn't always live here.

Those two things had clung to my mind while he had gone on elaborating on the wonderful opportunities the place offered for his beginning practice and what really fine people the villagers were when once you came to know them. He had predicted that I'd soon grow to like it.

Like it! My sobs took on added vehemence. Sunnyvale! What mockery in the very name. A narrow valley smothered between bare hillscovering a wealth of coal no doubt, but so far away from civilization that the great mounds of coal that had been mined during the years since the discovery of the mines, were still waiting for the advent of a doubtful railroad. And the people! I had been reared in a college community-my

father had been a college professor and my associates had been cultured and progressive.

Here even the Doane's said "hain't" and "wouldn't ought"-and the pri vations! There wasn't a bathtub in the whole village, nor an electric light. The rural telephone the boast of the community-with its annoying double ring system and the provincial practice of the people to gossip and to listen-in, made it a joke. The mail service was irregular and slow.

The only social and intellectual diversions were pitiful little amateur theatricals by local organizations, and musicals by the church choir.

The place was ugly; the people ig. norant, narrow-minded, and gossipy. I hated it! I had hated it from the first and now I almost hated Jim for having brought me here. No, of course I didn't hate Jim-but how could he endure it?

And now if I couldn't get away for weeks I couldn't go at all. It wouldn't be safe to travel in the crude stage coach-the only way to get to the railway station one hundred miles away.

At this thought I became more hysterical than ever. No! No! My baby should not be born there! Jim him self had wanted me to go home for that to be under the care of dear old

Dr. Beck and to have the comfort of Aunt Sarah's presence. It seemed to me that to have my baby born in Sunnyvale, would be placing a curse on the little new life-the curse of narrowness, ignorance, and provincialism.

Presently the realization that someone was knocking on the back door penetrated my misery. With an effort I controlled my sobs that the intruder might not hear. Why would these people persist in always coming to the back door? And why did they

persist in coming at all when they knew perfectly well that I would rather be left to myself?

It was probably Mrs. Johnson with a dish of some Danish concoction or Mrs. Mueller with a sample of some new brew, or Kate Peters with a design for a crocheted yoke or little Phil Holden with a crippled rabbit or cat. I had shown them plainly enough that I wasn't interested in their provincial affairs. But still they kept coming as during those first

few weeks when there had been a bit of amusement mixed with annoyance. Of course I knew it was because they worshiped Jim. But that didn't make the annoyance any less. I couldn't help comparing them with my friends

back home.

Jim had tried to reconcile me to their crude hospitality. He was always preaching about hidden worth beneath their rough exteriors and call. ing them unpolished diamonds.

I might have pretended to like them for Jim's sake, but I felt that it wouldn't be just to him, for I had come to a painful realization that Jim did love these people. It was no matter of pretense with him. He was

interested in their Danish puddings

and sick kittens. I was afraid sometimes that he would be contented to devote his entire life to them. Even if that long dreamed of rail-road did come and give him the start he needed, I had resolutely made up my mind that he wouldn't make such a sacrifice. There were plenty of opporturities in civilized parts of the world. That resolve kept me cold and aloof from the advances of these people who were trying to be my friends, at times when without it I would have given in to their well-meant kindness.

The knocking at the back door went on at intervals for several minutes. And then happened just what I knew would happen. The door opened and

a voice called, "Scuse me, Mis' Bates, but I guess you didn't hear me knock," and footsteps came across the kitchen floor toward the living room. It was Mertilla Doane.

I made a pretense of yawning as I raised myself from the window seat, and tried to keep my eyes averted. I didn't want Mertilla to know I'd ben crying.

"Doctor Jim 'phoned to ma about the bridge gettin' smashed and spoilin' your trip and he wanted some of us to come an' stay with you 'til he gets back." Mertilla was a pretty child. She had big trusting blue eyes that looked adoringly at you in a way that made you want to cuddle her until she said something that reminded you she was an inevitable part of Sunnyvale.

"Ma said you wouldn't ought to stay here alone. She'd a come over herself only she's takin' care of Granny Harding now Dorothy's sick, so she sent me to see if you won't please come over to our house. We're going to have batter puddin' fer dinner

-the kind Dr. Jim's most awful fond of. Ma used to make it every Sun

day when he lived with us 'fore you come." There was no denying that Aunty Doane, as Jim affectionately called the woman who had housed and fed him during several summer vacations and the year after he had finished his medical course, was a good cook and Jim and I had just been "piecing" for the last day or so while I was so busy getting ready for my trip. But I felt as if I never wanted to eat again—at least in Sunnyvale.

"Won't you please come over?” Mertilla had sidled a little nearer and I knew without looking that she had that wistful, comforting look in her eyes that made everyone-especially Jim-her slave.

"Granny Harding knows lots of good stories 'bout early days and Injuns and Snowball's got three little kittens."

I had been trying to get command of myself before I spoke. I still kept my eyes toward the window as I answered Mertilla.

"Tell your mother that I am all right and that I prefer to remain at home." I waited for the child to go but she stood shifting from one shabby foot to the other.

"Thank you for coming." I condescended after an awkward pause. But just now I should like to be alone."

"Ma'll be awful dis'pointed. She's -she's sorry you can't go home-an' home-an' -an'

I

I winced, then stiffened at this reference to my disappointment. felt sobs crowding again into my throat. "I guess you'd better go and tell your mother I'm not coming. I'm busy this morning." I stood up and started toward the bedroom.

"If-if-you'd like some of us to come and stay with you-an-they say Dorothy's awful sick, an' ma thinks Dr. Jim maybe won't be back to-night-If we can do anything fer you. We'd all do anything fer Dr. Jim-an' you. You're so purty an' grand jist like the ladies in books

can't I-go an' git Snowball an' the kittens an' come an' stay with you?" Hesitatingly Mertilla had drawn nearer in spite of my repulses and she was now clinging to my skirt. I didn't dare look down into her face. I knew if I did I couldn't keep back those choking sobs.

"Thank you, there is nothing you can do." I hurried into the bedroom and closed the door, conscious of a feeling of shame at the way I had treated this little favorite of Jim's but I simply had to let the flood gates open again.

The room was in the confusion of my interrupted packing. I knelt beside a half-filled traveling bag, and picking up a tiny baby shirt from a chair buried my face in its softness. "I can't stay, I can't!" I sobbed over and over until I was weak and exhaused. I remained huddled there for hours after Mertilla's steps had died away.

Then I heard Paddy's tuneless whistle as he came shuffling along the frozen walk.

Paddy was a simple-minded old Irishman, without either kith or kin, who had been injured in a coal mine and who was alive only because of Jim's surgery. For this reason he was our sworn slave. To please the old fellow, Jim often let him do little odd jobs for us, and I heard him ask Paddy the day before to come around at three o'clock and help take my luggage to the post office. It was now twenty minutes to three. Evi dently Paddy had not heard of the snowslide. I would have to go out and explain.

He surprised me with his greeting. "Shure an' it's sorry I am Missus Jim, that your trip be shpoilt an' you a countin' on it so." Somehow Paddy and I had grown to be good friends. Perhaps it was because he didn't seem any more really to belong to Sunnyvale than I did. I told him much about my old home and of my plans for this visit.

"Shure, an' Doctor Jim's sorry, too. He's wurkin that hard on the trail, between takin' care of the sick baby, it's worried I am fer the b'y."

"Working the doctor working on the trail-what do you mean?"

"Shure, he tried to get the men to dig the trail so the coach could get through-you wantin' so bad to gobut the b'ys said it was dangerous till the slide settled more firm. But