That old story pleased Miss Widad now, while her eyes brimmed over with tears and in her ears was the strong drumming of the rain on the glass panes of her window.

Then she felt a strange bliss, and divine hands lifting her above the tangible things that surrounded her.

Dong... dong... dong — the Christmas bells rang out, pierc-ing the sounds of the rains and the storms.

And the young lady rose from her bed with sudden speed, went to the washstand, washed the tears from her face, set her appearance in order again, and joined the members of the family in silence, as though nothing at all had happened.

Half an hour later everyone was at church, where each one felt how different that day was from all other days: flowers everywhere, lending a radiance to souls; a Christmas tree fashioned with extra care and artistic taste; girls in white dresses like angels; everything breathing a spiritual beauty and recalling that old story which renews itself year after year.

Strange! How had Miss Widad forgotten this Child before, and forgotten His love, which sur-passes every other love? Why should she not ask Him herself today, since He is the only one who receives the suffering? Those chanting voices and the music rising upward — even the old carols she had learned while still in the cradle — found their way to her very core, as though she were hearing them for the first time in her life. Then she began to pray with desire and longing to that divine Spirit.

That old story, and that man who proved to be a God, drew her in a strange way that morning. And she returned to the house silent, exactly as she had been on the previous night.

Except that today her heart had fallen in love with a God, after having been, the night before, the lover of a man.

That was the only difference between yesterday and today...

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