CHAPTER IX.

'Twas the merry eve of Christmas, all the city blazed with light, And the gush of happy voices thrilled like music through

the night.

Merrily the little children danced beneath the Christmas tree, Heavy with its glittering branches, full of gifts as they could be.

THE pale green of spring, the darker hues of summer, and the gorgeous splendor of autumn, had each in turn lent beauty and variety to earth. All had passed away, and through the tall forest trees, now shorn of their foliage, the wintry winds howled, while Santa Claus waited in a shower of feathery flakes for the midnight hour, noted alike for the journey of his reindeer team and the fairy phantoms of the ether blue.

The impressions of early life are strong and lasting, and later, when the child is perfected in growth and years, and understands the myth of this December day, he chooses to recall it as an oasis, the reality of which he would not banish from his calendar. Dark indeed is the home of the little one where this morn of glad tidings is not foreshadowed by some herald of love, some mark of affection.

Annie had been eight months in Lewiston, with scarce a holiday. It was the night before Christmas, and Mrs. Barlow's numerous family had many of them left to spend the merry hours of Christmas with relatives and friends 'neath the rooftree of their not far distant homes. Annie sat thoughtfully in her own room, trying

very hard to read and understand the open page that lay before her. This was the first Christmas she had ever spent away from the humble home of her youth. There she had never looked for an expensive gift, but the mother-love had never failed to procure some little token that should make the day ever memorable to her children. It was a sweet recollection, and Annie hugged it to her hungry heart. Then she thought of the poor around her. She had never been selfish-and to them on this glad day she would give much-yet her own necessities compelled her to give but very little. She had cast in her mite with her friend, and her deft fingers had fashioned many, both pretty and useful, articles to gladden the less fortunate ones, who might otherwise be neglected or forgotten. But this was to be done in a quiet way-for neither the one nor the other thought well of giving to some little waif a small and comparatively worthless thing in the immediate presence of more fortunate ones, who might receive beautiful and tempting gifts. The very poor may/ have sensitive natures. They can see and, alas, feel keenly the dividing line that in school, church and state marks the bounds of wealth and poverty. They would have none of this, and after arranging their different articles and perfecting their plans for the morrow, they sought the sleep of the just and innocent, only to be awakened at an early hour by the joyful shouts of the Barlow children, who were jubilant over the good Santa who had filled their stockings to overflowing, while the mother shed tears of gratitude as she saw the many good things committed to her keeping.

After the breakfast hour their little merchandise was arranged, and the young girls started on their missions of love. They found the old and infirm who sat uncared for and alone, yet with a halo of hope around them in the sure promise of a youthful immortality. They entered rooms so cheerless and damp that their winter wraps were scarce sufficient to keep them from shivering with cold. They saw the gentle wife, who

watched the life spark that faded each day in the eye of her dying husband. They found the forlorn ones-children, barefooted, thinly clad, unwashed faces, unkept hair, and eyes so painfully pathetic and wistful. Their last call was to a very humble home, where they had seen a frail child, young in years, but with a face aged and pinched by poverty, with only summer clothing to guard against the wintry frost. Another messenger had crossed the threshold before them, and with him the child had left the dark and cold room of its earthly dwelling for the house of many mansions. From here the girls went homeward, and in their own room thought long and silently of the scenes they had left. Annie broke the stillness by asking:

“When was the first Christmas ?”

"A mooted question," replied her friend, "too far away for us to answer. They tell us some time in the second century. Before that, I think, history tells us that Constantine, for cruelty's own sake, closed the doors on many worshippers one Christmas night, then set fire to the building, and they all perished. I think its first observance was in Roman Catholic and Greek churches. On this account some of our Puritan fathers objected to its observance."

"As it was to celebrate the day of Christ's nativity, why choose the twenty-fifth of December rather than the tenth of May-His real birthday, I think?”

"Here is perhaps another doubtful question, on which there was a difference of opinion by those many years nearer His birth than-—————’

Here the conversation was interrupted by a slight tap on the door, and a dainty box was handed in for Miss Wilmot. As she quickly removed the cover, a card fell on the table, on which was inscribed the name of W. L. Ashley. A bright flush suffused the cheek of Annie as she gazed on a small

bouquet of beautiful flowers. This was a revelation to Edith, which blanched her face to something akin to deathly pallor.

"Are they not beautiful?" exclaimed the happy girl, holding up the flowers for inspection, "lovely, and so fragrant."

Rallying a little from her first shock of astonishment, Edith replied, "Very fair and lovely-but the stream has risen higher than the fountain."

"Impossible-what do you mean?" "Well, I will speak a little plainer. The flowers are far more lovely than the one who gave them. You know something of the language of flowers. Here is a sprig of cedar, which signifies, 'I live for thee.' False word as was ever uttered by man. He never did and never will live for any one but Ashley. White rose-forever thine.' Think of it, and every other flower expressive of love. The ruling word of heaven. A divinity in itself, of which he never knew the first letter."

Here the excited girl stopped, and Annie replaced her flowers in the little box, hallowed them with a tear, and carried them from sight. None would fear to trust Annie with one whose crooked ways and ungentlemanly manners had drawn to himself her critical gaze and merited displeasure; but would her better judgment, and strong love of right rise equal to the occasion where the heart was concerned, or would she-not blindly, but willfully-allow her great love to overtop every other principle and lead her to a lifelong wretchedness? We shall see. The flowers thus summarily dismissed left a brooding silence in their wake, the first of its kind since they learned to know each other; Edith, shocked that her quiet friend should fall into the toils of the one man whom she could neither love nor respect, (when and how had been planted this seed of noxious growth?) while Annie felt herself aggrieved by a supposed injustice towards the man who had kindled in her young heart the first vital spark of the heavenly flame.

But the dinner-so skilfully prepared and neatly laid-left

The short walk was inspiring, and they were h vestry, where boughs of green were laden waiting multitude.

ed to a few words of welcome, then a chorus whose lisping song was of Bethlehem, whose lumine the isles of the sea and carry peace and nations of the earth sitting in the shadow of came the bearded and fur-clad Santa Claus, ple pockets threw to the shouting little ones candy and small toys, while the distribution s to close the merry Christmas.

expected source beautiful skates found a way ur young friends, which, by Edith, were weld smile, telling of happy anticipations in the f the coming winter, while Annie's face exment if not disgust.

said, "skates! What are we to do with

course," replied the laughing Edith.

peated Annie, and the rich crimson flooded her

girl had yet to learn that she had alighted where mania among all classes, confined to neither her skating was connected with the half-grown ward limbs, untaught by grace or symmetry, bulous lengths on the newly frozen ice.