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“It’s barbarous!” Guy exclaimed, in a tone of disgust.

“And all over nothing of any real consequence,” sighed Mrs. Fernald, in her gentle way. “We would have given up our ideas gladly, for the sake of harmony. But–there were so many who felt it necessary to fight to have their own way.”

“And feel that way still, I suppose?” suggested Sam Burnett, cheerfully. “There’s a whole lot of that feeling-it-necessary-to-fight, in the world. I’ve experienced it myself, at times.”

They talked about it for a few minutes, the younger men rather enjoying the details of the quarrel, as those may who are outside of an affair sufficiently far to see its inconsistencies and humours. But it was clearly a subject which gave pain to the older people, and Guy, perceiving this, was about to divert the talk into pleasanter channels when Nan gave a little cry. Her eyes were fixed upon the fire, as if she saw there something startling.

“People! –Let’s open the church–ourselves–and have a Christmas Day service there!”

They stared at her for a moment, thinking her half dreaming. But her face was radiant with the light of an idea which was not an idle dream.

Guy began to laugh. “And expect the rival factions to come flocking peaceably in, like lambs to the fold? I think I see them!”

“Ignore the rival factions. Have a service for everybody. A real Christmas service, with holly, and ropes of greens, and a star, and music–and–a sermon,” she ended, a little more doubtfully.

“The sermon, by all means,” quoth Sam Burnett. “Preach at ’em, when once you’ve caught ’em. They’ll enjoy that. We all do.”

“But it’s really a beautiful idea,” said Margaret, her young face catching the glow from Nan’s. “I don’t see why it couldn’t be carried out.”

“Of course you don’t.” Guy spoke decidedly. “If people were all like you there wouldn’t be any quarrels. But unfortunately they are not. And when I think of the Tomlinsons and the Frasers and the Hills and the Pollocks, all going in at the same door for a Christmas Day service under that roof–well—-” he gave a soft, long whistle– “it rather strains my imagination. Not that they aren’t all good people, you know. Oh, yes! If they weren’t, they’d knock each other down in the street and have it over with–and a splendid thing it would be, too. But, I tell you, it strains my imagination to—-“

“Let it strain it. It’s a good thing to exercise the imagination, now and then. That’s the way changes come. I don’t think the idea’s such a bad one, myself.” Sam Burnett spoke seriously, and Nan gave him a grateful glance. She was pretty sure of Sam’s backing, in most reasonable things–and a substantial backing it was to have, too.

“Who would conduct such a service?” Mrs. Fernald asked thoughtfully.

“You couldn’t get anybody out to church on Christmas morning,” broke in Mr. Fernald, chuckling. “Every mother’s daughter of ’em will be basting her Christmas turkey.”

“Then have it Christmas evening. Why not? The day isn’t over. Nobody knows what to do Christmas evening–except go to dances–and there’s never a dance in North Estabrook. Whom can we get to lead it? Well—-” Nan paused, thinking it out. Her eyes roamed from Sam’s to her fathers, and from there on around the circle, while they all waited for her to have an inspiration. Nobody else had one. Presently, as they expected–for Nan was a resourceful young person–her face lighted up again. She gazed at Margaret, smiling, and her idea seemed to communicate itself to Guy’s wife. Together they cried, in one breath:

“Billy!”

“Billy! Whoop-ee!” Guy threw back his head and roared with delight at the notion. “The Reverend Billy, of St. Johns, coming up to North Estabrook to take charge of a Christmas-evening service! Why, Billy’ll be dining in purple and fine linen at the home of one of his millionaire parishioners–the Edgecombs’, most likely. I think they adore him most. Billy! –Why don’t you ask the Bishop himself?”