We claim that there is reason to be optimistic about the fiction of the year not only because it has been clean but because, as we have said, there has been a strong, we had almost said, a religious tendency. We would not put it as strongly as this, but the general tone has been sympathetic with all that was best. Of course, we look for this from many able writers of avowedly Christian interests. But to have this as a general tendency is a hopeful and a blessed sign, for the influence of a good novel is incalculable, as has been demonstrated over and over again. "Pot boilers" appear and always will, but this is not the type of the successful novel to-day. The novel with a purpose-not necessarily the problem novel, but one that aims to teach, reveal, or inspire

holds the day. As we have said, both "Coniston" and "The Awakening of Helena Richie" are excellent examples. There is a moral lesson in "Coniston" altogether apart from the revelation of graft, in the punishment of Jethro Bass, for who can say that when the younger Cynthia stood with the old man in the tannery house Jethro did not see that what he suffered was the punishment for having chosen the lower road when with the former Cynthia that he loved he stood in this same tannery house, at the parting of the ways?

It is this which reconciles us to what some would call the mediocrity of the year, and if there is little that is conspicuous there is less that we need be ashamed of. The general tendency has been morally and in every other way elevating.

Christmas was at the doors. There were sprigs of holly and mistletoe upon my mantel-shelf. There were cards from friends near and far upon my desk. Through the windows there came faintly the sound of church bells practising their Christmas chimes; while close at hand in the street below a band was playing, not perhaps in the most correct harmony, the grand old Christmas hymn,

"O come, all ye faithful."

Everything spoke of Christmas, and as I sat before my study fire that night my mind was full of thoughts of Bethlehem, and of the Little Child, and of the wonderful love and grace of God.

My New Testament was in my hands. I had opened it at random, and the chapter that met my gaze was the fifteenth chapter in the gospel written by the beloved apostle. It was a familiar chapter. I could repeat its every verse. But there is always "more light and truth to break forth from God's Word," and I discovered something in that familiar chapter that night which I had never noticed before. I read quietly, me

chanically almost, till I came to this little phrase, "If I had not come." I had never contemplated that possibility! What a terrible, awful "if." "If I had not come," I could read no further. That "if" gripped me, it held me in a vice, and I could not escape from it. Sitting in front of a blazing fire I shivered and turned cold as I thought of that "if," and yet I could think of nothing else. "If Christ had not come-what?" My New Testament dropped upon my knees, and

I began to dream of the Christless worldthe world in which Bethlehem had no place, the world which had never heard the angel's song, the world which had never seen the star, the world into which the little Child Jesus had not come.

And this is what I saw in my dream.

I have said the time was drawing near the birth of Christ, and signs of the approach of Christmas were all about me. This was the first thing I noticed about the Christless

world-it was a world without a Christmas. Christmas is a glad season. Everyone welcomes it. It is welcome to parents because it brings the children together again under the dear old family roof. It is welcome to sons and daughters out in the world because it restores them for a brief space to father and mother and home. It is welcome to the little ones because on Christmas Eve Santa Claus comes, laden with good things, to pay his annual visit. It is welcome to the hard-pressed man of business because it brings with it an exchange of grinding toil for family and social joys. It is welcome to the poor and friendless because it brings to their sad hearts glad proof that they are not entirely forgotten and unloved. Take it all in all, Christmas is the gladdest, brightest, merriest season in the whole year.

But in the Christless world there was no Christmas. The 25th of December was no different from any other day in that dreary place.

I walked out into the streets. I noticed that business was being carried on just as usual. The shops were all open. The chimneys of factories and foundries poured out dense clouds of black smoke. All around me I could hear the whirr of machinery and the ordinary sounds of labor. I saw business men hurrying along, looking anxious and careworn and troubled. I listened for the usual hearty greetings, but I heard none. Men just gave a hasty nod or a curt "Good morning" to one another, and passed on. I listened for the Christmas bells, "answering each other through the mist." But not a single peal broke the silence of the air. And I marveled to see the world so busy, so careworn, so joyless on this particular day, until I remembered it was a world into which He had not come, and in the Christless world there is no Christmas.

Christmas is a gladsome time in the home. But I walked into a home in this Christless world on the 25th of December, and I saw no signs of unusual rejoicing or gladness. I peeped into the rooms where the little ones slept, but I saw no tiny stockings hung up at the foot of the bed for Santa Claus to fill with good things. I looked into the parlor, but I saw no Christmas tree. I looked into the breakfast room, but I saw no presents on the table-all I saw was the father, breakfasting in a great hurry in or

der to be in time for business. I wondered there was no eager expectation of the postnian's knock-but I found that the postman had already called; he was as early as usual, and he had brought no Christmas cards. I expected to find grown-up sons and daughters once again in the old home, but no absent son or daughter had come back. And again I wondered-no cards, no presents, no family gatherings, no holly, no mistletoe-until I remembered I was in a Christless world, and in the Christless world there is no Christmas.

Christmas is a gladsome time for the poor and needy. At this time, more than at any other, the rich, of their abundance, give to them that lack. Christmas creates sympathy between man and man, and many who are hard and miserly enough at other times catch the infection of generosity at this blessed season of the year. The result is, Christmas Day is the brightest day in the year for thousands and thousands of poor people, because multitudes of those who are better off seek to make the day happy for themselves by making it happy for others. So, full of expectation, I wandered on the morning of the 25th of December into the courts and alleys, where the poor spent their dull and monotonous lives. I opened the doors of their houses and looked in. But I was smitten to the heart with disappointment; for I saw no presents on the tables. I saw no little packets of tea, no parcels of provisions for the Christmas dinner. I saw no preparations for any unusual festivity. I saw no sign that the rich had been caring for the comfort of the poor. The 25th of December was as dull and dreary a day as any day in the twelvemonth. The fare on the table was scanty. The fire in the grate was the usual tiny spoonful. The children's faces were pinched and pale. And as I noticed this I wondered, and asked myself, "Where are all the little gracious and kindly gifts men and women offer to the poor and needy in order to brighten and gladden their Christmas?" until I remembered I was in a world into which He had not come, and in the Christless world is no Christmas.

Sick at heart, I dreamed that I turned my steps homewards, when in my walk I came to a sudden stop, for on one side of the street I noticed a great gap in the row

CHRISTMAS CHIMES.

E. H. Blashfield.

of buildings. That vacant place bewildered me. I had never seen it before. I held my head and tried to think. Yes, certainly that was where St. Peter's Church used to stand. But it was there no longer. I ran to the next street, which contained the church wherein I was wont to worship. That, too, had disappeared. I looked up to the crest of the hill, on which our great cathedral lay, like a giant eagle with its wings outstretched for flight. The hilltop was desolate and bare. Every tower and spire, every church and chapel, had clean gcne. I held my breath for very wonder ard amazement. I could not understand it, until I remembered I was in a world into which Christ had not come.

Nor were churches and chapels the only buildings that I missed. The prison in all its hideous ugliness was still there. But the dispensary had gone, and the hospital had vanished, and the orphanage had disappeared. In this world I looked upon, I I could see no care taken of the sick and dying. I could see no provision made for the orphan, the destitute, the fallen. I

could see no pity for the poor. And again I marveled to see a world so hard, so cruel, so pitiless, until I remembered it was a Christless world-a world into which He had not come.

Then, I know not how or why, my attention was drawn to the men and women who passed by me in the streets. I thought I noticed signs of weariness and distress on their faces, and on looking closely I saw that all carried a burden upon their shoulders. And the burden seemed to crush them to the ground beneath its weight, and yet, do what they would, they could not shake it off. One man as he passed I heard crying, "Wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from this dead body?" I wondered what this dreadful burden was, and then I saw it was the burden of sin each one was carrying. And I marveled exceedingly that men and women should continue to bear that crushing load. I asked myself why they did not do as Bunyan, in his immortal dream, makes Christian do. I wondered why they did not go up to the cross, and then the burden would be loosed from their shoulders, and would fall from off their backs, and would tumble till it came to the mouth of the sepulchre, into which it would fall, and they should never see it more. And I was on the point of crying out to them about the cross and the blood shed for the remission of sins, when I remembered, with a shudder and a start, that in this world there was no cross, and, therefore, no grave in which sin could be buried; that in this world there was no hope of pardon or release, but that sin was a burden men were forever doomed to carry, for the world I was looking upon was a Christless world-a world into which He had not come.

It was with a sigh of relief I escaped out of the streets, with their sights of wretchedness and woe, into the quiet of my own room. But I quickly found my disappointments and troubles were not at an end. For immediately on entering I saw changes had taken place. There were empty spaces in my book shelves. Small gaps made by books withdrawn for use at the desk or lent to friends I was accustomed to. But these were not gaps of that kind, for whole rows of books had disappeared. I got up to see what had happened. I found every com

mentary I possessed on the New Testament had vanished. I took up my Bible, and found it ended at Malachi. The shelf on which I kept my "Lives of Christ" was bare, and I began to wonder what could have happened to these books of mine-the books I prized the most-until I remembered I was in a world into which He had not come, and the Christless world is a world without a New Testament, a world that knows nothing of the sweet story of the gospels.

But I comforted myself that I had many

L. Knaus.

books still left. I looked to the shelf where I kept my poets-my Shakespeare, my Milton, my Tennyson, my Browning! Yes, they were all there! I took up one of them just to assure myself-it happened to be a volume of Browning-and turned to some of my favorite passages. But my first glance at the book made me start with astonishment. The passages that had been my meat and drink had disappeared. There were the pencil marks at the side, but opposite them nothing but blank spaces. It seemed as if some one out of sheer wanton