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“I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn’t fear them any more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby–we all love a baby.” There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. “I used to peek through under to see the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!” He paused, and I could hear the men breathing.

“But one Christmas eve,” he went on in a lower, sweeter tone, “there was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it and went away to college, and learned to think that it was only a child’s tale and was not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil’s arms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart–for I had put it all behind me–I suddenly found myself peeking under the shepherds’ arms with a child’s wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves that His name was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins. Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew I had called out, ‘Oh! can He save me?’ It was in a little mission meeting on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and said: ‘Why, you just bet He can!’ His surprise that I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul, and”–stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a little break in his voice–“He hasn’t failed me yet; not once, not once!”

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool of myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his dark eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears away, but the face that held my eyes was that of old man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as if to cry. The minister went on.

“I didn’t mean to tell you this, men; it all came over me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a word will I take back. And, what’s more, I can tell you this: what He did for me He can do for any man, and it doesn’t make any difference what’s behind him, and”–leaning slightly forward, and with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice–“oh, boys, why don’t you give Him a chance at you? Without Him you’ll never be the men you want to be, and you’ll never get the better of that that’s keeping some of you now from going back home. You know you’ll never go back till you’re the men you want to be.” Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to himself, “Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins,” and then, “Let us pray.”

Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and Blaney dropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some others stood up. Old man Nelson held his eye steadily on the minister.