For years after that Livingstone had never thought of Christmas without being conscious of a certain radiance that vision shed upon the time.
The next day in the holly-dressed church she seemed a saint wrapt in divine adoration.
Another shift of the scene; another Christmas.
Reverses had come.

His father, through kindness and generosity, had become involved beyond his means, and, rather than endure the least shadow of reproach, gave up everything he possessed to save his name and shield a friend.

Livingstone himself had been called away from college.
He remembered the sensation of it all.

He recalled the picture of his father as he stood calm and unmoved amid the wreck of his fortune and faced unflinchingly the hard, dark future.

It was an inspiring picture: the picture of a gentleman, far past the age when men can start afresh and achieve success, despoiled by another and stripped of all he had in the world, yet standing upright and tranquil; a just man walking in his integrity; a brave man facing the world; firm as an immovable rock; serene as an unblemished morning.
Livingstone had never taken in before how fine it was.