She came back to him and stood by the fire.  “Don’t you believe in it?” She was plainly troubled for him.  “Don’t you believe in the angels and the shepherds, and the wise men, and the Babe in the Manger?”

“No,” he said dully, “I don’t believe.”

“Oh,” it was almost a cry, “then what does Christmas mean to you?  What can it mean to anybody who doesn’t believe in the Babe and the Star in the East?”

“It means this, Mary Ballard,” he said, impetuously, “that out of all my unbelief—­I believe in you—­in your friendliness.  And that is my star shining just now in the darkness.”

She would have been less than a woman if she had not been thrilled by such a tribute.  So she blushed shyly.  “I’m glad,” she said and smiled up at him.

But as she went down-stairs, the smile faded.  It was as if the shadow of the Tower Rooms were upon her.  As if the loneliness and sadness of Roger Poole had become hers.  As if his burden was added to her other burdens.

Aunt Frances, more regal than ever in gold and amethyst brocade, was presiding over a mountainous pile of white boxes, behind which the unlighted tree spread its branches.

“My child,” she said reprovingly, as Mary entered, “I wonder if you were ever in time for anything.”

And Porter whispered in Mary’s ear as he led her to the piano:  “Is this a merry Christmas or a Contrary-Mary Christmas?  You look as if you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

She shook her head.  Tears were very near the surface.  He saw it and was jealously unhappy.  What had brought her in this mood from the Tower Rooms?

And now Barry turned off the lights, and in the darkness Mary struck the first chords and began to sing, “Holy Night——­”

As her voice throbbed through the stillness, little stars shone out upon the tree until it was all in shining glory.

Up-stairs, Roger heard Mary singing.  He went to his window and drew back the curtains.  Outside the world was wrapped in snow.  The lights from the lower windows shone on the fountain, and showed the little bronze boy in a winding sheet of white.

But it was not the little bronze boy that Roger Poole saw.  It was another boy—­himself—­singing in a dim church in a big city, and his soul was in the words.  And when he knelt to pray, it seemed to him that the whole world prayed.  He was bathed in reverence.  In his boyish soul there was no hint of unbelief—­no doubt of the divine mystery.

He saw himself again in a church.  And now it was he who spoke to the people of the Shepherds and the Star.  And he knew that he was making them believe.  That he was bringing to them the assurance which possessed his own soul—­and again there were candles on the altar, and again he sang, and the choir boys sang, and the song was the one that Mary Ballard was singing——­

He saw himself once more in a church.  But this time there was no singing.  There were no candles, no light except such as came faintly through the leaded panes.  He was alone in the dimness, and he stood in the pulpit and looked around at the empty pews.  Then the light went out behind the windows, and he knelt in the darkness; but not to pray.  His head was hidden in his arms.  Since then he had never shed a tear, and he had never gone to church.