It was a tribute to Helen's adroit skill and to the social loyalties of those smalltown kids that not once did, they betray her, nor she them, even under the stresses of her own son's affair with his latest boy-friend. I guess things like that can be more easily managed in a crowd having pretty much the same backgrounds.

It was around two when dancing stopped and we were ordered to gather around the great glittering Christmas tree, whose topmost star just scraped the florid plaster rosettes of the high ceiling. Presents for everyone were opened, with much oh-ing and ah-ing, much squealing and thank-you kissing.

Then Helen sat down at the old rosewood square-piano Hank's grandfather bought from Pleyel's in Paris years before and played carols. Arms encircled, we all sang them. There was "The First Noel," and "Stille Nacht," in German, and, oddly enough," My Buddy," a song from World War I which was always sung at Helen's.

At three she rose from the piano. When everyone was silent she said, "You kids must get out now, or my reputation will be ruined forever. And go straight home. I'll phone your mothers tomorrow to check up on you," and she smiled.

"This is Christmas," she continued. "You all gave each other presents just now, but remember, there is only one gift that really matters." She hesitated for just a moment. I watched to see if her voice was going to betray some deep and hidden feelings of her own, but it didn't.

"That gift is love. REAL love. Never forget that." She smiled again, and said, "Now I want each one of you to be the kind of a friend you ought to be, and if you ever have any troubles, come to Helen and we'll talk them over."

"Now scamper. All of you. And a gay and merry Christmas to you all.” Amidst cries of, "A gay and merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Creighton," and the starting of cars, with headlights flicking the dark night, quiet gradually settled down over the old house. The cold Illinois wind whistled through the great sugarmaples that lined the drive. The four of us-Helen, Hank and his friend, and Istood watching the soft lights from the Christmas tree fall across the polished top of the old Pleyel piano for a moment before going to our rooms without saying another word.

About Our Authors

EDWARD DENISON is the pseudonym of the 35 year old Texan author of "On a Winter Morning." Mr. Denison is a bachelor cattle-rancher who enjoys work in the decorative arts as a side line. He was educated at the University of Texas and attended art school in N. Y. C.

J. LORNA STRAYER author of "Revocation" is a veteran of our pages having appeared as early as the December 1954 issue. She is 32 years old and married. She keeps busy at nursing and social work, and reading and writing.

ARENT VAN SANTHORST is one of the founders of Culture-en Ontspanningscentrum, Dutch homophile organization, and lives in Amsterdam.

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