The words seemed chanted by the voices of young angels.  Miss Terry passed her hands over her eyes and glanced at the clock.  But what the hour was she never noticed, for her gaze was filled with something else.  Beside the clock, in the spot where she had laid it a few minutes before, was the Christmas Angel.  But now, instead of lying helplessly on its back, it was standing on rosy feet, with arms outstretched toward her.  Over its head fluttered gauzy wings.  From under the yellow hair which rippled over the shoulders two blue eyes beamed kindly upon her, and the mouth widened into the sweetest smile.

“Peace on earth to men of good-will!” cried the Angel, and the tone of his speech was music, yet quite natural and thrilling.

Miss Terry stared hard at the Angel and rubbed her eyes, saying to herself, “Fiddlestick!  I am dreaming!”

But she could not rub away the vision.  When she opened her eyes the Angel still stood tiptoe on the mantel-shelf, smiling at her and shaking his golden head.

“Angelina!” said the Angel softly; and Miss Terry trembled to hear her name thus spoken for the first time in years.  “Angelina, you do not want to believe your own eyes, do you?  But I am real; more real than the things you see every day.  You must believe in me.  I am the Christmas Angel.”

“I know it.”  Miss Terry’s voice was hoarse and unmanageable, as of one in a nightmare.  “I remember.”

“You remember!” repeated the Angel.  “Yes; you remember the day when you and Tom hung me on the Christmas tree.  You were a sweet little girl then, with blue eyes and yellow curls.  You believed the Christmas story and loved Santa Claus.  Then you were simple and affectionate and generous and happy.”

“Fiddlestick!” Miss Terry tried to say.  But the word would not come.

“Now you have lost the old belief and the old love,” went on the Angel.  “Now you have studied books and read wise men’s sayings.  You understand the higher criticism, and the higher charity, and the higher egoism.  You don’t believe in mere giving.  You don’t believe in the Christmas economics,—­you know better.  But are you happy, dear Angelina?”

Again Miss Terry thrilled at the sound of her name so sweetly spoken; but she answered nothing.  The Angel replied for her.

“No, you are not happy because you have cut yourself off from the things that bring folk together in peace and good-will at this holy time.  Where are your friends?  Where is your brother to-night?  You are still hard and unforgiving to Tom.  You refused to see him to-day, though he wrote so boyishly, so humbly and affectionately.  You have not tried to make any soul happy.  You don’t believe in me, the Christmas Spirit.”

There is such a word as Fiddlestick, whatever it may mean.  But Miss Terry’s mind and tongue were unable to form it.

“The Christmas spirit!” continued the Angel.  “What is life worth if one cannot believe in the Christmas spirit?”