“How beauteous are their feet
      Who stand on Zion’s Hill;
      And bring salvation on their tongues,
      And words of peace reveal.”

But the great triumph of all was the Christmas Tree.  How big it was! a large stout Spruce in the upper part of the hall.  It bore a gift for every child in the town.  Two little girls had the whooping cough, and could not come out; but there were two playthings for them also, given to their brothers to be taken home.  St. Nicolas—­it was Almira Weldon’s lover—­distributed the gifts.

Squire Stovepipe came in late, without any of the “family” that he was so busy in “establishing,” but was so cold that it took him a good while to warm up to the general temperature of the meeting.  But he did at length; and talked with the Widow Wheeler, and saw all her well-managed children, and felt ashamed of his meanness only ten days before.  Deacon Willberate saw his son Ned dancing with Squire Allen’s rosy daughter, Matilda,—­for the young people cared more for each other than for all the allusions to slavery in all the prayers and sermons too, of the whole world,—­and it so reminded him of the time when he also danced with his Matilda,—­not openly at Christmas celebrations, but by stealth,—­that he went straight up to his neighbor; “Squire Allen,” said he, “give me your hand.  New Year’s is a good day to square just accounts; Christmas is not a bad time to settle needles quarrels.  I suppose you and I, both of us, may be wrong.  I know I have been for one.  Let by-gones be by-gones.”  “Exactly so,” said the Squire.  “I am sorry, for my part.  Let us wipe out the old score, and chalk up nothing for the future but good feelings.  If a prayer parted, perhaps a benediction will unite us; for Katie and Ned look as if they meant we should be more than mere neighbors.  Let us begin by becoming friends.”

Colonel Stone took his youngest daughter, who had a club-foot, up to the Christmas tree for her present, and there met face to face with his enemy’s oldest girl, who was just taking the gift for her youngest brother, Robert,—­holding him up in her bare arms that he might reach it himself.  But she could not raise him quite high enough, and so the Colonel lifted up the little fellow till he clutched the prize; and when he set him down, his hands full of sugar-cake, asked him, “Whose bright little five-year-old is this?  What is your name, blue eyes?” “Bobbie Nilkinson,” was the answer.  It went right to the Colonel’s heart.  “It is Christmas,” said he; “and the dear Jesus himself said, ’Suffer little children to come unto me.’  Well, well, he said something to us old folks, too:  ‘If thy brother trespass against thee,’ &c., and ’If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there remember that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.’” He walked about awhile, thinking, and then found his