Peter saw the hospital anew that dark afternoon, saw it through Harmony’s eyes.  Layer after layer his professional callus fell away, leaving him quick again.  He had lived so long close to the heart of humanity that he had reduced its throbbing to beats that might be counted.  Now, once more, Peter was back in the early days, when a heart was not a pump, but a thing that ached or thrilled or struggled, that loved or hated or yearned.

The orchestra, insisting on sadly sentimental music, was fast turning festivity into gloom.  It played Handel’s “Largo”; it threw its whole soul into the assurance that the world, after all, was only a poor place, that Heaven was a better.  It preached resignation with every deep vibration of the cello.  Harmony fidgeted.

“How terrible!” she whispered.  “To turn their Christmas-Eve into mourning!  Stop them!”

“Stop a German orchestra?”

“They are crying, some of them.  Oh, Peter!”

The music came to an end at last.  Tears were dried.  Followed recitations, gifts, a speech of thanks from Nurse Elisabet for the patients.  Then—­Harmony.

Harmony never remembered afterward what she had played.  It was joyous, she knew, for the whole atmosphere changed.  Laughter came; even the candles burned more cheerfully.  When she had finished, a student in a white coat asked her to play a German Volkspiel, and roared it out to her accompaniment with much vigor and humor.  The audience joined in, at first timidly, then lustily.

Harmony stood alone by the tree, violin poised, smiling at the applause.  Her eyes, running along the dim amphitheater, sought Peter’s, and finding them dwelt there a moment.  Then she began to play softly and as softly the others sang.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,”—­they sang, with upturned eyes.

“Alles schlaeft, einsam wacht...”

Visions came to Peter that afternoon in the darkness, visions in which his poverty was forgotten or mattered not at all.  Visions of a Christmas-Eve in a home that he had earned, of a tree, of a girl-woman, of a still and holy night, of a child.

“Nur das traute, hoch heilige Paar Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar Schlaf’ in himmlischer Ruh’, Schlaf’ in himmlischer Ruh’,” they sang.

There was real festivity at the old lodge of Maria Theresa that night.

Jimmy had taken his full place in the household.  The best room, which had been Anna’s, had been given up to him.  Here, carefully tended, with a fire all day in the stove, Jimmy reigned from the bed.  To him Harmony brought her small puzzles and together they solved them.

“Shall it be a steak to-night?” thus Harmony humbly.  “Or chops?”

“With tomato sauce?”

“If Peter allows, yes.”

Much thinking on Jimmy’s part, and then:—­

“Fish,” he would decide.  “Fish with egg dressing.”

They would argue for a time, and compromise on fish.