With a powerful effort Miss Terry shook off her nightmare sufficiently to say, “The Christmas spirit is no real thing.  I have proved it to-night.  It is not real.  It is a humbug!”

“Not real?  A humbug?” repeated the Angel softly.  “And you have proved it, Angelina, this very night?”

Miss Terry nodded.

“I know what you have done,” said the Angel.  “I know very well.  How keen you were!  How clever!  You made a test of Chance, to prove your point.”

Again Miss Terry nodded with complacency.

“What knowledge of the world!  What grasp of human nature!” commented the Angel, smiling.  “It is like you mere mortals to say, ’I will make my test in my own way.  If certain things happen, I shall foresee what the result must be.  If certain other things happen, I shall know that I am right.’  Events fall out as you expect, and you smile with satisfaction, feeling your wisdom justified.  It ought to make you happy.  But does it?”

Miss Terry regarded the Angel doubtfully.

“Look now!” he went on, holding up a rosy finger.  “You are so near-sighted!  You are so unimaginative!  You do not dream beyond the thing you see.  You judge the tale finished while the best has yet to be told.  And you stake your faith, your hope, your charity upon this blind human judgment,—­which is mere Chance!”

Miss Terry opened her lips to say, “I saw—­” but the Angel interrupted her.

“You saw but the beginning,” he said.  “You saw but the first page of each history.  Shall I turn over the leaves and let you read what really happened?  Shall I help you to see the whole truth instead of a part?  On this night holy Truth, which is of Heaven, comes for all men to see and to believe.  Look!”

CHAPTER VIII

JACK AGAIN

The Christmas Angel gently waved his hand to and fro.  Gradually, as Miss Terry sat back in her chair, the library grew dark; or rather, things faded into an indistinguishable blur.  Then it seemed as if she were sitting at a theatre gazing at a great stage.  But at this theatre there was nothing about her, nothing between her and the place where things were happening.

* * * * *

First she saw two little ragamuffins quarreling over something in the snow.  She recognized them.  They were the two Jewish boys who had picked up the Jack-in-the-box.  An officer appeared, and they ran away, the bigger boy having possession of the toy; the smaller one with fists in his eyes, bawling with disappointment.

Miss Terry’s lips curled with the cynical disgust which she had felt when first witnessing this scene.  But a sweet voice—­and she knew it was the Angel’s—­whispered in her ear, “Wait and see!”

She watched the two boys run through the streets until they came to a dark corner.  There the little fellow caught up with the other, and once more the struggle began.  It was a hard and bloody fight.  But this time the victory was with the smaller lad, who used his fists and feet like an enraged animal, until the other howled for mercy and handed over the disputed toy.