began attending to his appearance with extra care in readiness for going to church. And should she go to church? Miss Widad began asking herself: what was there? The priest would repeat the recita-tion of that same story which she had come to know so well: a child born in Bethlehem in a manger for cattle; angels singing "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men"; nomad shepherds belling their flocks; Magi from the East coming with gifts... Was there anything more than the repeating of that old story, the chanting of the same carols, and a long prayer to grow weary of? No — better to stay at home and await Jean's arrival.

And the morning mail came: tele-grams of congratulation, greeting cards, a letter for her father, a letter for her mother, a newspaper — a letter addressed to her! She tore open the envelope with a trembling hand... the signature of Jean!

"My dear Widad,

"I have thought long about the matter of my visiting you on Christmas Day, but in the end

I have found it preferable not to come and stir up suspicions and the endless meddling of people. It is more fitting for us also, Widad, to be wise and to try to forget each other, so as not to stir up now the remnants of an old, boyish love..."

Widad had not the strength to finish reading the letter; those words entered her head like the wail of the alarm siren. Her head truly rang with clashing, glassy sounds. And she ran to her room, and before she reached it she burst into violent weeping. No sooner had she entered it than she flung herself down upon her bed, playing once more that old role which every girl plays who has been struck by a lover's betrayal. And she wept her calamity hotly, shedding hot tears that soaked the pillow...

A treacherous world... in which no one can be believed... a wicked world... a lying world, the world of the criminal Jean. To whom could she complain of her sorrow? For whom should she live from now on? Was there one human being in existence who would at least share her griefs, now that she had

been deceived by that person to whom she had given all that God had given her — that young man whom she had set up as an ideal symbol of the most perfect man?

And the strong, mellow church bell rang. On that morning Christ was born, God's message to suf-fering mankind, thought Widad, her face buried in the folds of the soft pillow.

Yes, that God was born in the form of a man. He was born, and He lives still, gathering to His breast every sufferer wronged by this corrupt world floundering in evils.

A God born in a manger for cattle — not like this puffed-up modern youth that will sit only in the first row before people and eats bread and olives at home. No; He was born in a lowly place, but one that was safe, simple, wrapped in peace and gentleness and love. Simple nomad shepherds belling sheep and cattle, with hearts purer than the heart of man. The angels too, in their white garments, pouring out their heavenly strains, surrounding that swaddled child, announcing to the world the glory of God and His love.