"Jim calls him a 'girl-boy,' because he plays with us," said Hanny, "and in some ways I like girl-boys best. Ben is a sort of girl-boy. I'm going to bring him over to see you. Jim's real splendid and none of the boys dare fight him any more," she added loyally.

"And first, you know," began Tudie in a mysteriously confidential manner, "we thought it so queer and funny. His mother called him John Robert Charles. And she used to look out of the window and ask him if he had his books and his handkerchief, and tell him to come straight home from school, and lots of things. Oh, we thought we wouldn't have her for our mother, not for a world!"

"How did he come by so many names?" Daisy smiled.

"Well, grandfather and all," replied Tudie rather ambiguously. "His father calls him Charles. It sounds quite grand, doesn't it? We all wanted to call him Robert. And Hanny's big sister sings such a lovely song—"Robin Adair." I'd like to call him that."

"I should so like to hear him sing. I'm so fond of singing," said Daisy plaintively.

"Now if we were in the back yard we could all sing," rejoined Josie. "But of course we couldn't in the street with everybody going by."

"Oh, no!" Yet there was a wistful longing in Daisy's face, that was beginning to look very tired.

There were not many people going through this street. Houston Street was quite a thoroughfare. But the few who did pass looked at the merry group of girls and at the pale invalid whose chair told the story, and gave them all a tender, sympathetic thought.

All except Lily Ludlow. She was rather curious about the girl in the chair and made an errand out to the Bowery. When Hanny saw who was coming she turned around and talked very eagerly to Elsie Hay, and pretended not to know it. Lily had her President, and Jim admired her, that was enough.

"You're very tired, Missy," Sam said presently.

"Yes," replied Daisy. "I think I'll go home now. And will you all come to see me to-morrow? Oh, it is so nice to know you all! And Pussy Gray is just angelic. Please bring him, too."

They said good-by. For some moments the little girls looked at each other with wordless sorrow in their eyes. I think there were tears as well.



CHAPTER XVII

SOME OF THE OLD LANDMARKS

"Yes, all of us," said Ben. "We can tuck in the Deans. I only wish Charles could go. Well, the house won't run away. And Mr. Audubon has travelled all over the world. Mr. Whitney wrote an article about him. That's the work I'd like to do—go and see famous people and write about them."

Interviewing was not such a fine art in those days. Ben had enough of it later on.

Dr. Joe had asked Mr. Audubon's permission to bring a crowd of children to see him and his birds. He was getting to be quite an attraction in the city.

When they packed up they found a crowd sure enough. But Dr. Hoffman took Margaret and the little girl with him, as Charles had been allowed a half day off for the trip. The drive was so full of interest. They went up past the old Stuyvesant place and took a look at the pear-tree that had been planted almost two hundred years ago and was still bearing fruit. Then they turned into the old Bloomingdale Road, and up by Seventy-fifth Street they all stopped to see the house where Louis Philippe taught school when he was an emigrant in America. And now he was on the throne, King of the French people, a grander and greater position, some thought, than being President of the United States.

"For of course," said Jim, "he can stay there all his life, and the President has only four years in the White House. After all, it is a big thing to be a king."

And in a little more than two years he was flying over to England for refuge and safety, and was no longer a king. Mr. Polk was still in the White House.

It was an odd, low, two-story frame house where royalty had been thankful to teach such boys as Ben and Jim and Charles. There was a steep, sloping roof with wide eaves, a rather narrow doorway in the middle of the front, carved with very elaborate work, and an old knocker with a lion's head, small but fierce. The large room on one side had been the schoolroom, and the board floor was worn in two curious rows where the boys had shuffled their feet. The fireplace was what most people came to see. It was spacious and had a row of blue and white Antwerp tiles with pictures taken from the New Testament. They were smoked and faded now, but they still told their story. The mantelpiece and the doors were a mass of the most elaborate carving.

There were still some old houses standing in New York that had been built with bricks brought from Holland. Charles was very much interested in these curiosities and had found one of the houses down in Pearl Street.

Then they drove up through McGowan's Pass, where Washington had planned to make a decisive stand at the battle of Harlem Heights. There was the ledge of rock and the pretty lake that was to be Central Park some day. It was all wildness now.

There was so much to see that Dr. Joe declared they had no more time to spend following Washington's retreat.

"But it was just grand that he should come back here to be inaugurated the first President of the United States," said Charles. "I am proud of having had that in New York."

"The city has a great many famous points," said Dr. Joe; "but we seem to have lost our enthusiasm over them. Beyond there," nodding his head over east, "is the Murray House that can tell its story. Handsome Mrs. Murray, and she was a Quaker, too, made herself so charming in her hospitality to the British generals that she detained them long enough for Silliman's brigade to retreat to Harlem. Washington was awaiting them at the Apthorpe House, and they had left that place not more than fifteen minutes when the British came flying in the hot haste of pursuit. So but for Mrs. Murray's smiles and friendliness they might have captured our Washington as well as the city."

"That was splendid," declared Charles enthusiastically.

"And maybe as a boy Lindley Murray might have thought up his grammar that he was to write later on to puzzle your brains," continued Dr. Joe.

"Well, that is odd, too. I'll forgive him his grammar," said Ben, with a twinkle in his eye.

"And if we don't go on we will have no time for Professor Audubon and the birds. But we could ramble about all day."

"I didn't know there were so many interesting things in the city. They seem somehow a good ways off when you are studying them," replied Charles.

He really wished Hanny was in the carriage. She was so eager about all these old stories.

Then they went over to Tenth Avenue. There was the old Colonial house, with its broad porch and wide flight of steps. It was country then with its garden and fields, its spreading trees and grassy slopes.

And there was Professor Audubon on the lawn with his wife and two little grandchildren. He came and welcomed the party cordially. He had met both doctors before. He was tall, with a fine fair face and long curling hair thrown back, now snowy white. Once with regard to the wishes of some friends while abroad he had yielded and had it cut "fashionable," to his great regret afterward, and the reminiscence was rather amusing. His wide white collar, open at the throat, added to his picturesque aspect. Then he had a slight French accent that seemed to render his hospitality all the more charming.

Ben and Charles knew that he had been nearly all over the Continent, and had hardships innumerable and discouragements many, and had in spite of them succeeded in writing and illustrating one of the most magnificent of books. And when they trooped into the house and saw the stuffed birds and animals, the pictures he had painted, and the immense folio volumes so rich with drawings, it hardly seemed possible that one brain could have wrought it all.

Everything, from the most exquisite hummingbird to an eagle and a wild turkey. There was no museum of natural history then. Mr. Barnum's collection was considered quite a wonder. But to hear this soft-voiced man with his charming simplicity describe them, was fascination itself.

The little girl really wavered in her admiration for Mayor Harper. He had been her hero par excellence up to this time. A man who could govern a city and make boots had seemed wonderful, but here was a man who could keep the birds quite as if they were alive. You almost expected them to sing.

He was very fond of children and Mrs. Audubon was hardly less delightful. They could not see half the treasures in such a brief while, and they were glad to be invited to come again. Ben did find his way up there frequently, and Charles gleaned many an entertaining bit of knowledge. When the little girl went again, the tender, eager eyes had lost their sight, and the enthusiasm turned to a pathos that was sorrow itself. But there was no hint of it this happy day, which remained one of their most delightful memories.

Now that they were so near, Margaret said they must go and see Miss Lois. Dr. Joe was quite a regular visitor, for Miss Lois was growing more frail every week. Josie and Tudie thought they would like to see another old house, and a harp "taller than yourself." Charles was much interested. Jim had his mind so full of birds and hunting adventures he could think of nothing else, and said he would rather walk around.

Miss Lois was quite feeble to-day, and said Margaret must be the hostess. They went into the old parlor and examined the quaint articles and some of the old-fashioned books. Josie wished they might try the harp and see how it would sound, but no one would propose it if Miss Lois was so poorly.

"It's very queer," said Hanny. "She played for me once. The strings are rusted and broken, and it sounds just like the ghost of something, as if you were going way, way back. I didn't like it."

The German woman was out in the kitchen and gave them each a piece of cake. There was a quaint old dresser with some pewter plates and a pitcher, and old china, and a great high mantel.

"You seem way out in the country," said Charles. "But it's pretty, too. And the trees and the river and Fort Washington. Why, it's been like an excursion. I am so glad you asked me to come."

Margaret entered the room. "She wants to see you, Hanny," she said quietly. "And when she is stronger she would like the little girls to come again."

Hanny went into the chamber. Miss Lois was sitting up in the big rocker, but her face was as white as the pillow back of her head. And oh, how thin her hands were! strangely cold, too, for a summer day.

"I'm very glad you came again, little Hanny," she said. "I had been thinking of you and Margaret all day, and how good it was of your father and you to hunt me up as you did. You've given me a deal of happiness. Tell him I am thankful for all his kindness. Will you kiss me good-by, dear? I hope you'll be spared to be a great comfort to every one."

Hanny kissed her. The lips were almost as cold as the hands. And then she went out softly with a strange feeling she did not understand.

It was late enough then to go straight home. Dr. Joe had a little talk with his mother, and the next day he took her up to Harlem. The children went over to Daisy's in the afternoon and told her about "everything." Mrs. Jasper insisted upon keeping them to supper.

Her mother had not returned when the little girl went to bed. It seemed so strange the next morning without her. Margaret was very quiet and grave, so the little girl practised and sewed, and then read a while. In the afternoon her mother came home and said Miss Lois had gone to be with her sister and her long-lost friends in the other country.

A feeling of awe came over her. No one very near to her had died, and though she had not seen so very much of Miss Lois, for her mother had gone up quite often without her, the fact that she had been there so lately, had held her poor nerveless hand, had kissed her good-by in an almost sacred manner when she was so near death, touched her. Did she know? Hanny wondered. What was death? The breath went out of your body—and her old thoughts about the soul came back to her. It was so different when the world was coming to an end. Then you were to be caught up into heaven and not be put into the ground. She shrank from the horrible thought of being buried there, of being so covered that you never could get out. She decided that she would not so much mind if the world did come to an end.

"Margaret," she said, "was it dreadful for Miss Lois to die?"

"No, dear," returned her sister gently. "If we were all in another country, the beautiful heaven, and you were here all alone, would you not like to come to us? That was the way Miss Lois felt. It is so much better than living on here alone. And then when one gets old—no, dear, it was a pleasant journey to her. She had thought a great deal about it, and had loved and served God. This is what we all must do."

"Margaret, what must I do to serve Him?"

"I think trying to make people happier is one service. Being helpful and obedient, and taking up the little trials cheerfully, when we have to do the things we don't quite like."

"I wish you would tell me something hard that I do not like to do."

"Suppose I said I would not go out and play with the girls this afternoon."

"I'd rather not of myself," said Hanny. "I feel like being still and thinking."

Margaret smiled down in the sweet, serious face. There was no trial she could impose.

"Then think of the beautiful land where Miss Lois has gone, where no one will be sick or tired or lonely, where the flowers are always blooming and there is no winter, where all is peace and love."

"But I don't understand—how you get to heaven," said the puzzled child.

"No one knows until the time comes. Then God shows us the way, and because He is there we do not have any terror. We just go to Him. It is a great mystery. No one can quite explain it."

Elsie Hay came for her, but she said she was not going out, that she did not feel like playing. She brought her sewing, and in her mind wandered about heaven, seeing Miss Lois in her new body.

They did not take her to the funeral. She went over to Daisy Jasper's and read to her, wondering a little if Daisy would be glad to go where she would be well and strong and have no more pain. But then she would have to leave her father and mother who loved her so very much.

Miss Lois had left some keepsakes to Margaret. Two beautiful old brocaded silk gowns that looked like pictures, some fine laces, and a pretty painted fan that had been done expressly for her when she was young. A white embroidered lawn for Hanny, a pearl ring and six silver spoons, besides some curious old books. Mrs. Underhill was to take whatever she liked, and dispose of the rest. The good German neighbor was to have the house and lot for the care she had taken of both ladies. Mr. Underhill had arranged this some time before, so there would be no trouble.

Everything in the house was old and well worn. There was a little china of value, and the rest was turned over to the kindly neighbor.

Margaret and Hanny went up to visit grandmother, both grandmothers, indeed. The old Van Kortlandt house was a curiosity in its way, and though Hanny had seen it before she was not old enough to appreciate it. The satin brocade furniture was faded, the great gilt-framed mirrors tarnished, and all the bedsteads had high posts and hanging curtains, and a valance round the lower part. Aunt Katrina was there and a cousin Rhynders, a small, withered-up old man who played beautifully on a jewsharp, and who sang, in a rather tremulous but still sweet voice, songs that seemed quite fascinating to Hanny, pathetic old ballads such as one finds in "The Ballad Book" of a hundred years ago. There was an old woman in the kitchen who scolded the two farmhands continually; a beautiful big dog and a cross mastiff who was kept chained, as well as numerous cats, but Grandmother Van Kortlandt despised cats.

It was delightful to get home again, though now Elsie and Florence had gone to see their grandmother, and the Deans were away also. But Daisy Jasper kissed her dozens of times, and said she had missed her beyond everything and she would not have known how to get along but for Dr. Joe. Hanny had so much to tell her about the journey and her relatives.

"And I haven't even any grandmother," said Daisy. "There is one family of cousins in Kentucky, and one in Canada. So you see I am quite destitute."

Both little girls laughed at that.

Dr. Joe said Daisy was really improving. She walked about with her crutch, but they were afraid one leg would be a little short.

Charles came over to see Hanny that very evening. He certainly had grown taller, and had lost much of his timidity. He really "talked up" to Jim. He was so fair and with the sort of sweet expression that was considered girlish, and kept himself so very neat, that he was different from most boys. I don't suppose his mother ever realized how much mortification and persecution it had cost him.

She still toiled from morning to night. Charles began to wish she would wear a pretty gown and collar and a white apron at supper time instead of the dreadful faded ginghams. Everything had a faded look with her, she washed her clothes so often, swept her carpets, and scrubbed her oil-cloths so much. The only thing she couldn't fade was the window-glass.

Charles and his father had grown quite confidential. They had talked about school and college.

"Though I am afraid I don't want to be a minister," said Charles, drawing a long breath as if he had given utterance to a very wicked thought.

"You shall have your own choice about it," replied his father firmly. "And there's no hurry."

It had been such a pleasure to walk down-town every morning with his father. Broadway was fresh and clean, and the breeze came up from the river at every corner. There were not so many people nor factories, and there were still some lots given over to grassy spaces and shrubs. Walking to business was considered quite the thing then.

He had a great deal to tell Hanny about "our" store, and what "we" were doing. The new beautiful stock that was coming in, for then it took from twelve to sixteen days to cross the ocean, and you had to order quite in advance. He had learned to play several tunes on the accordeon, and he hoped his father would let him take his four weeks' wages and buy one. And Mr. Gerard had said he should be very happy to have all the girls and their mothers come down some afternoon.

"And if Daisy only could go!"

"Isn't she beautiful?" said Charles. "She looks like an angel. Her short golden hair is like the glory they put around the saints and the Saviour, an aureole they call it."

"What a beautiful word."

"I thought at first she would die. But your brother is sure she will live now. Only it's such a pity——" the boy's voice faltered a little from intense sympathy.

Hanny sighed too. She knew what he meant to say. But the children refrained from giving it a name. "Hanny, I think it's just splendid to be a doctor. To help people and encourage them when you can't cure them. He said one night when he stopped at the Deans that she might have been dreadfully deformed, and now it will not be very bad, that when her lovely hair gets grown out again it will not show much. I'm so glad."

They had cut the golden ringlets close to her head, for she could not be disturbed during those critical weeks in the hospital.

When the Deans came home there was great rejoicing. And since there was such a little time left for Charles to stay in the store they could not wait for Elsie and Flossie.

"If we could take Daisy," Hanny said to Joe. He dropped in nearly every evening now. The city was very healthy in spite of August weather, and young doctors were not wont to be overrun with calls.

"I don't see why you shouldn't. It would be the best thing in the world for her to go out, and to be with other children and have some interests in common with them. Yes, let us go down and see."

The family were all out on the stoop and the little paved court. They were so screened from observation. Dr. Joe came and stood by Daisy's chair, while Hanny sat on a stool and held the soft hand. Then he preferred the children's request.

"Oh, it would be lovely!" Then the pale face flushed. "I don't believe I—could."

"Why not?" asked Dr. Joe.

There was no immediate answer. Mrs. Jasper said hesitatingly: "Would it be wise, doctor? One cannot help being—well, sensitive."

"Yet you do not want to keep this little girl forever secluded. There are so many enjoyable things in the world. It is not even as if Daisy had brothers and sisters who were coming in hourly with all manner of freshness and fun."

"I can't bear people to look at me so. I can almost hear what they say——"

Daisy's voice broke in a short sob.

"My dear child," Dr. Joe took the other hand and patted it caressingly. "It is very sad and a great misfortune, but if you had to remember that it came from the violence of a drunken father, or the carelessness of an inefficient mother, it would seem a harder burden to bear. We can't tell why God allows some very sad events to happen, but when they do come we must look about for the best means of bearing them. God has seen fit to make a restoration to health and comparative strength possible. I think He means you to have some enjoyment as well. And when one gets used to bearing a burden it does not seem so heavy. Your parents are prosperous enough to afford you a great many indulgences, and you must not refuse them from a spirit of undue sensitiveness. And then, my little girl, God has given you such a beautiful face that it cannot help but attract. Can't you be brave enough to take the pleasures that come to you without darkening them by a continual sense of the misfortune?"

Daisy was crying now. Dr. Joe pressed the small figure to his heart, and kissed her forehead. He had been unusually interested in the case, but he knew now some effort must be made, some mental pain endured, or her life would drop to weariness. Mrs. Jasper was very sensitive to comment herself.

Mr. Jasper began to walk up and down the path.

"Yes, doctor," he exclaimed; "what you say is true. You have been such a good friend to my little girl. We want her to be happy and to have some companionship. The children up your way have been very kind and sympathetic. I like that young lad extremely. It is only at first that the thing seems so hard. Daisy, I think I would go."

He came and kissed his unfortunate little girl.

"Oh, do!" entreated Hanny softly. "You see, it will be like the ladies of long ago when they went out in their chairs. There's some pictures in the old books Miss Lois sent us, and the funny clothes they wore. I'll bring them over some day. I read about a lady going to Court in her chair. And there were two or three pretty maids to wait on her. We'll make believe you are the Countess Somebody, and we are the ladies in waiting. And we'll all go to the Palace. The King will be out; they're always on hunting expeditions, and the Prince, that will be Charles, there was a bonnie Prince Charlie once, will take us about and show us the lovely things in the Palace——"

Hanny had talked herself out of breath and stopped.

Mr. Jasper laughed. "Upon my word, Miss Hanny, you would make a good stage manager. There, could you have it planned out any nicer, Daisy? I shall have to be on hand to see the triumphal procession as it goes down Broadway."

Hanny's imagination had rendered it possible.

Joe swung her up in his strong arms.

"We think a good deal of our Hanny," he said laughingly. "If she was smaller she might be exhibited along with Tom Thumb, but she's spoiled that brilliant enterprise, and yet she stays so small that we begin to think she's stunted."

"Oh, Joe, do you really?" she cried.

"We shall have to call her the little girl all her life. And you know she's bothered a good deal about her name, which isn't at all pretty, but she takes it in good part, and puts up with it."

"I call her Annie sometimes," said Daisy.

"Ann is but plain and common, And Nancy sounds but ill; While Anna is endurable, And Annie better still,"

repeated Dr. Joe. "So you see we all have some trials. To be a little mite of a thing and to be called Hanneran is pretty bad. And now, little mite, we must go back home. When will the cavalcade start? I must be on hand to see it move."

"About three, Charles said. Oh, it will be just delightful!"

Now that Hanny had been put down she hopped around on one foot for joy.

They said good-night and walked up home.

"Don't you think I will grow some, Joe?" she asked, with a pretty doubt in her tone. "I did grow last year, for mother had to let down my skirts."

"I don't want you to grow too much. I like little women," he answered.

The cavalcade, as Dr. Joe called it, did start the next day. Daisy's mother and her Aunt Ellen went, Mrs. Dean and Margaret, and four little girls, including Nora Whitney, who was growing "like a weed." They went out to Broadway and then straight down. Of course people looked at them. The children were so merry, and really, Daisy in her chair with her colored attendant was quite an unusual incident. Aunt Ellen had let her carry her pretty dove-colored sunshade. It was lined with pink and had a joint in the handle that turned it down and made a shelter from too curious eyes. There were a good many people out. It was not necessary then to go away for the whole summer in order to be considered fashionable. People went and came, and when they were home they promenaded in the afternoon without losing caste.

Stores were creeping up Broadway. "Gerard & Co." was on the block above the Astor House, a very attractive notion and fancy store. The window was always beautifully arranged, and the cases were full of tempting articles. There were seats for customers, and across the end of the long store pictures and bijou tables and music-boxes were displayed. In a small anteroom there was a workshop where musical instruments, jewelry and, trinkets were repaired.

Sam lifted out his young mistress and carried her in. Charles came forward to receive his guests, and though he flushed and showed some embarrassment, acquitted himself quite creditably. Mr. Gerard, with his French politeness, made them very welcome and took a warm interest at once in Daisy. She sat by the counter with Sam at her back, and looked quite the countess of Hanny's description. Mr. Gerard brought her some rare and pretty articles to examine. The others strolled around, the children uttering ejaculations of delight. Such elegant fans and card cases and mother-of-pearl portemonnaies bound with silver and steel! Such vases and card receivers—indeed, all the pretty bric-a-brac, as we should term it nowadays.

But the greatest interest was aroused by the music-boxes. The children listened enchanted to the limpid tinkle of the tunes. It was like fairy-land.

"Oh," cried Daisy, with a long sigh of rapture; "if I only could have a music-box! Then I could play for myself. And it is so beautiful. Oh, mamma!"

Mrs. Jasper inquired prices. From twenty-four dollars to beyond one hundred. There was one at forty dollars that played deliciously, and such a variety of tunes.

"And when you tire of them you can have new music put in," explained Mr. Gerard.

"And you don't have to learn all the tiresome fingering," commented Hanny.

"If I had a piano I shouldn't ever think it tiresome," said Charles.

"Oh, yes, you would, even when you loved it and tried to learn with all your might. Tunes give you a joyful sort of feeling," and Hanny's eyes sparkled.

"And you could dance to this," Tudie whispered softly, while her eyes danced unmistakably.

Mrs. Jasper examined several of them and listened to the tunes. They came back to that for forty dollars.

"We will have to talk to papa. He thought he might drop in."

The children did not tire of waiting. Hanny thought she might spend a whole day looking over everything, and listening to the dainty, enchanting music. But Mrs. Dean said she must go.

Just at that instant Mr. Jasper arrived, having been detained. His wife spoke in a little aside, and he showed his interest at once. Why, yes, a music-box could not fail to be a great delight to Daisy.

Mr. Gerard wound up two or three of them again. Then the ladies decided they would ride up in the stage with the children. Mr. Jasper and Sam would see to Daisy's safety.

And the result was that Mr. Jasper bought the music-box, ordering it sent home the next day. Daisy was speechless with joy. Sam carried her out and put her into her chair.

"I don't believe I shall ever be afraid to go out again," she said eagerly. Indeed she did not mind the eyes that peered at her now. Some were very pitying and sympathetic.

As Charles was putting away many of the choice articles for the night Mr. Gerard slipped a dollar into his hand.

"That's your commission," he said smilingly, "on unexpected good fortune. And I shall be so sorry to lose you. I wish it was the first of August instead of the last, or that you didn't want to go back to school."



CHAPTER XVIII

SUNDRY DISSIPATIONS

The schools were all opened again. Hanny wasn't too big to go to Mrs. Craven's, indeed her school commenced with some girls two or three years older. Ben went to work, starting off in the morning with John. Jim felt rather lonely.

His best girl had been undeniably "snifty" to him. Something had happened to her at last. Through a friend her father had secured a position in the Custom House. It was not very high, but it had an exalted sound. And instead of the paltry five hundred dollars he earned at the shoe store, the salary was a thousand. They were going to move around in First Avenue. Hanny was sorry that it was a few doors above Mrs. Craven's. If Lily had only gone out of the neighborhood!

Of course she disdained the public school. She was going to Rutgers. She held her head very high as they went back and forth during the removal, and stared at Hanny as if she had never known her.

But there were so many things to interest Hanny. Sometimes she read the paper to her father, and it was filled with threats and excitements. In the year before, the independence of Texas had been consented to by Mexico on condition that her separate existence should be maintained. But on the Fourth of July, at a convention, the people had accepted some terms offered by the United States, and declared for annexation. For fear of a sudden alarm General Zachary Taylor had been sent with an army of occupation, and Commodore Connor with a squadron of naval vessels to the Gulf of Mexico. The talk of war ran high.

Then we were in a difficulty with England about some Oregon boundaries. "The whole of Oregon or none," was the cry. England was given a year's notice that steps would be taken to bring the question to a settlement. Timid people declared that wild land was not worth quarrelling about.

If you could see an atlas of those days I think you would be rather surprised, and we are all convinced now that geography is by no means an exact science. The little girl and her father studied it all out. There was big, unwieldy Oregon. There were British America and Russian America. There were Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen, and though there were dreams of an open Polar Sea, no one was disturbing it. We had a great American Desert, and some wild lands the other side of the Rocky Mountains. An intrepid young explorer, John Charles Fremont, had discovered an inland sea which he had named Salt Lake, and then gone up to Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River.

He had started again now to survey California and Oregon. We thought Kansas and Nebraska very far West in those days, and the Pacific coast was an almost unknown land. We had just ratified a treaty with China, after long obstinacy on their part, and Japan was still The Hermit Kingdom and the Mikado an unknown quantity.

And so everybody was talking war. But then it was so far away one didn't really need to be frightened unless we had war with England.

There were various other matters that quite disturbed the little girl. It had not seemed strange in the summer to have Dr. Hoffman come and take Margaret out driving, or for an evening walk. But now he began to come on Sunday afternoon and stay to tea. Mrs. Underhill was very chatty and pleasant with him. She had accepted the fact of Margaret's engagement, and to tell the truth was really proud of it. Already she was beginning to "lay by," as people phrased it, regardless of Lindley Murray, for her wedding outfit. There were a few choice things of Cousin Lois' that she meant for her. Pieces of muslin came in the house and were cut up into sheets and pillow-cases. They were all to be sewed over-seam and hemmed by hand. A year would be none too long in which to get ready.

Josie one day said something about Margaret being engaged. Hanny made no reply. She went home in a strange mood. To be sure, Steve had married Dolly, but that was different. How could Margaret leave them all and go away with some one who did not belong to them! She could not understand the mystery. It was as puzzling as Cousin Lois' death. She did not know then it was a mystery even to those who loved, and the poets who wrote about it.

Her mother sat by the front basement window sewing. Martha was finishing the ironing and singing:

"O how happy are they Who their Saviour obey And have laid up their treasure above."

Martha had been converted the winter before and joined the Methodist church in Norfolk Street. The little girl went with her sometimes to the early prayer-meeting Sunday evening, for she was enraptured with the singing.

But she went to her mother now, standing straight before her with large, earnest eyes.

"Mother," with a strange solemnity in her tone, "are you going to let Margaret marry Dr. Hoffman?"

"Law, child, how you startled me!" Her mother sewed faster than ever. "Why, I don't know as I had much to do with it any way. And I suppose they'd marry anyhow. When young people fall in love——"

"Fall in love." She had read that in some of the books. It must be different from just loving.

"Don't be silly," said her mother, between sharpness and merriment. "Everybody falls in love sooner or later and marries. Almost everybody. And if I had not fallen in love with your father and married him, you mightn't have had so good a one."

"Oh, mother, I'm so glad you did!" She flung her arms about her mother's neck and kissed her so rapturously that the tears came to her mother's eyes. Why, she wouldn't have missed the exquisite joy of having this little girl for all the world!

"There, child, don't strangle me," was what she said, in an unsteady voice.

"But Dr. Hoffman isn't like father——"

"No, dear. And Margaret isn't like me, now. They are young, and maybe when they have been married a good many years they will be just as happy, growing old together. And since Margaret loves him and he loves her—why, we are all delighted with Dolly. She's just another daughter."

"But we have a good many sons," said the little girl, without seeing the humor of it.

"Yes, we didn't really need him, just yet. But he's Joe's dear friend and a nice young man, and your father is satisfied. It's the way of the world. Little girls can't understand it very well, but they always do when they're grown up. There, go hang up your bonnet, and then you may set the table."

Yes, it was a great mystery. Margaret seemed suddenly set apart, made sacred in some way. Hanny's intensity of thought had no experience to shape or restrain it. All the girls had liked Charles,—perhaps if there had been several boys and spasms of jealousy between the girls, she might have been roused to a more correct idea. But though they had made him the father, a lover had been quite outside of their simple category.

Margaret came down presently. She had on her pretty brown merino trimmed with bands of scarlet velvet, and at her throat a white bow just edged with scarlet. Her front hair was curled in ringlets.

"Mother, can't we have supper quite soon, or can't I? The concert begins at half-past seven and we want to be there early and get a good seat. Dr. Hoffman is coming at half-past six."

Father came in. Mrs. Underhill jumped up and brought in the tea. Jim came whistling down the area steps. They did not need to wait for John and Benny Frank.

Hanny looked at her sister quite as if she were a new person, with some solemn distinction. How had she come to love Dr. Hoffman?

She had not settled it when she went to bed alone. There was a dreary feeling now of years and years without Margaret.

That was Friday, and the following Sunday Dr. Hoffman marched into the parlor with a vital at-home step. Margaret was up-stairs. Hanny sat in her little rocker reading her Sunday-school book. He smiled and came over to her, took away her book, and clasping both hands drew her up, seated himself, and her on his knee before she could make any resistance.

"Hanny," he began, "do you know you are going to be my little sister? I can't remember when I had a little sister, mine always seemed big to me. And I am very glad to have you. You are such a sweet, dear little girl. Won't you give me a word of welcome?"

Something in his voice touched her.

"I wasn't glad on Friday," she said slowly. "I don't want Margaret to go away——"

"Then you will have to take me in here."

"There's Stephen's room," she suggested naively.

"Yes, that would do. But I'm not going to take Margaret away in a long, long time."

"Oh!" She was greatly relieved.

"But I want you to love me," and he gave her a squeeze, wondering how she could have kept so deliciously innocent. "Won't you try? You will make Margaret ever so much happier. We should be sad if you didn't love us, and now if you love one, you must love the other."

Then Margaret came down, and she said the same thing, so what could Hanny do but promise. And it seemed not to disturb any one else. When she spoke of the prospect to her father, he said with a laugh and a hug: "Well, I have my little girl yet."

Dolly and Stephen took possession of their new abode and had a "house-warming," a great, big, splendid party almost as grand as the wedding. And what a beautiful house it was! There was a bathroom and marble basins, and gas in every room, and pretty light carpets with flowers and green leaves all over them. There was music and dancing and a supper, and old Mr. Beekman walked round with her and told her Katschina wasn't well at all, and he was afraid he should lose her. Dolly said she was to come up on Friday after school and stay until Monday morning. Would Margaret and Dr. Hoffman have a house like this some time?

She had more lessons to learn now. And grammar was curiously associated with Mrs. Murray being so sweet and attentive to the British officers while the Federal soldiers stole along—she could fairly see them with her vivid imagination. History began to unfold the great world before her. Another thing interested her, and this was that every pleasant day Daisy Jasper came to school for the morning session. She was very backward, of course, for she had never been to school at all. She could walk now without her crutch, but Sam was always very careful of her. The Jasper house became the rendezvous for the girls, as the Deans' had been. Even bonnie Prince Charlie was allowed to go there. Daisy loved so to see them dance to the music of her wonderful box. But Charles had not been able to buy his accordeon. He needed a new suit of clothes if he had any money to throw away, and Mrs. Reed insisted this should be put in the bank when his father said he could buy him all the clothes he needed.

Some of the girls at school were making pretty things for a fair to be held in the basement of the Church of the Epiphany in Stanton Street, and they begged Hanny to help. They were to have a fair at Martha's church also, and the little fingers flew merrily. Hanny had found a new accomplishment, and she was very proud to bring it into the school. This was crocheting. Next door to the stable in Houston Street lived a very tidy German family with a host of little children. The man did cobbling, mending boots and shoes. His wife did shoe binding and stitching leather "foxings" on cloth tops for gaiters. Button shoes had not come in. They either laced in front or at the side. And very few ladies wore anything higher than the spring heel, as it was called. To be sure, some of them did wear foolishly thin shoes, but there were rubbers unless you disdained them; and they were real India-rubber, and no mistake, rather clumsy oftentimes, but they lasted two or three years.

The little German girls, Lena and Gretchen, took care of the babies and did the work. It seemed to Hanny they were always busy. Lena knit stockings and mittens and caps, and her small fingers flew like birds. One day she was doing something very beautiful with pink zephyr and an ivory needle with a tiny hook at the end.

"Oh, what is it?" cried Hanny eagerly.

"Lace. Crocheted lace. A lady on Grand Street will give me ten cents a yard. It is for babies' petticoats. And you can make caps and hoods and fascinators. It plagued me a little at first, but now I can do it so fast, much faster than knitting it. And I am to have all the work I can do."

"Oh, if I could learn!" cried Hanny.

"I'll show you because you are so good to us. Your boy brought mother such a package of clothes. But I am not going to teach the girls around here. They will be wanting to do it for the stores. You can make lace with cotton thread and oh! elegant with silk. That is worth a good deal."

Hanny bought her needle and worsted. At first she was "bothered" as well. But she was an ingenious little girl, and when you once had the "knack" there were such infinite varieties to it. And oh, it was so fascinating! She hardly had time to study her lessons, and one day she did actually miss in her definitions. But she begged Mrs. Craven to let her study them over and recite after school, for she knew her father would feel badly about the imperfect mark.

When she had made two yards of beautiful pink lace she showed it to Margaret. She meant to make two yards of blue and give them both to Katy Rhodes for her table at the Fair. Margaret was very much pleased and said she must learn herself. Daisy Jasper did a little, too. She was learning very rapidly and had a wonderful genius for drawing.

Oh, dear! how busy they were. They were happy and interested, and almost forgot to take out their dolls, or read their story-books. Martha said: "You might do something for my fair, too," and Margaret promised.

Jim did feel a little sore that Lily Ludlow did not ask him to her party, which was quite a grand affair. She announced that she had broken with the public-school crowd, and was going to have all new friends. But the very next week she met Jim at another party, and he was so handsome and manly that she really regretted her haste. Jim was very proud and dignified, and never once danced with her nor chose her in any of the games.

Dolly and Stephen came home to the Thanksgiving dinner. If Hanny had not been so much engrossed she might have considered herself left out of some things, only her father never left her out. And Ben brought home such tempting books that she did wish she could sit up like the others and not have to go to bed at nine.

The Epiphany fair came first, the week before Christmas. The Sunday-school room was all dressed with greens, and tables arranged over the tops of the seats with long boards, covered with white cloths. And oh, the lovely articles! Everything it seemed that fingers could make, useful or ornamental, from handsomely dressed dolls to pincushions, from white aprons with lace and ribbon bows on the dainty pockets down to unromantic holders. Everybody laughed and chatted and were as gay as gay could be.

In the back room that was rented out for a day school—indeed, the little girl had come quite near being sent here—there were tables for refreshments. The coffee and tea had a delightful fragrance, and the different dishes looked wonderfully tempting.

It was Hanny's first fair, but people didn't expect to take children out everywhere then, or indeed to go themselves. There was more home life, real family life. Her father was her escort, and her mother had said: "Now don't make the child sick by feeding her all kinds of trash, or she can't go out again this winter." So you see they had to be careful. But they had some delightful cake and cream, and he bought her a pound of candy tied up in a pretty box, and the loveliest little work-basket with a row of blue silk pockets around the inside.

Katy Rhodes was waiting at a table with her mother, but she found an opportunity to whisper to Hanny "that her lace had sold the very first thing, and there had been such a call for it she just wished they had had a hundred yards."

That pleased the child very much.

"It was like a store," said Hanny to her mother; "only everybody seemed to know everybody, and there were all kinds of things. So many people came for their suppers they must have made lots of money. And I'm as tired as I can be, only it was beautiful."

Martha's church was to have their Christmas Sunday-school anniversary, and Charles Reed was to sing a solo with a chorus of four voices. The Deans and half the people in the street went. Margaret and Dr. Hoffman, and this time John and Ben took the little girl. Mother had been up at Steve's all day.

There was a large platform at the end of the church, and crowds of pretty children dressed in white, ranged in tiers one above another. After a prayer and singing by the congregation the real exercises began. The body of children sang some beautiful hymns, then there were several spirited dialogues, and separate pieces, very well rendered indeed. When it came "bonnie Prince Charlie's" turn, he seemed to hesitate a moment. Hanny thought she would be frightened to death before all the people. I think Charles would have been a year ago.

The piano began the soft accompaniment. After the first few notes the sweet young voice swelled out like the warble of a bird. People were silent with surprise and admiration. The fair, boyish face and slim figure looked smaller there on the platform. The face had a youthful sweetness that nowadays would be pronounced artistic.

The chorus came in beautifully. There were three verses in the solo, and really, I do not know as the audience were to blame for applauding. The boy had to come out and sing again, this time a pretty Christmas carol that they had practised at singing-school.

When the exercises were finished the children were all taken down-stairs and they looked very pretty flitting about. There was another surprise, one that greatly interested the little girl. In one prettily arranged booth were two curious small beings who had a history. They had already been in Sunday-school on two occasions. A missionary to China, seeing these little girls about to be sold, had rescued them by buying them himself. He had brought them back on his return, and now kindly disposed people were making up a sum to provide them with a home and educate them.

Hanny pressed forward holding John's hand tightly. They were so strange-looking. The larger and older one was not at all pretty, but the younger one had a sweet sort of shyness and was not so stolid. Their yellow-brown skins, oblique dark eyes, black brows, and black hair done up in a remarkable fashion with some long pins, and their Chinese attire seemed very curious. The gentleman with them said there were hundreds of little girls sold in China, and that women bought them for future wives for their sons, and treated them like bond slaves. These children's feet had not been cramped, this was done mainly to the higher orders. He had some Chinese shoes worn by grown women, and they were such short, queer things, like some of the pincushions made for the Fair.

We didn't suppose then the Chinese would come and live with us and have a Chinatown in the heart of the city; do our laundry work and take possession of our kitchens; that the blue shirts and queer pointed shoes would be a common sight in our streets. So the Chinese children were a curiosity. Indeed, several years elapsed before Hanny saw another inhabitant of the Flowery Kingdom.

"Don't you want to put something in the box?" John held out a quarter to the little girl.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. Then she shook hands with the small Chinese maidens, and she felt almost as if she had been to a foreign country.

If Mrs. Reed had been present she would have marched Charles home in short order. She did not believe in praising children, or anybody else for that matter. Everybody, in her opinion, needed a strict hand. She hardly approved of the singing-school, and if she had really understood that Charles would stand out alone facing the audience, and then be applauded for what he had done, and go into the fair and be praised and "treated," she would have been horrified and put him on the strictest sort of discipline for the next month.

Charles had endeavored to persuade his mother to go, but she wanted to get the turkey ready for the Christmas dinner, and had no time for such trifling things. No woman had who did her duty by her house and her family. The harder and stonier and more rigid the discipline was, the more virtue it contained, she thought. There was no especial end in view with her; it was the way all along that one had to be careful about and make as rough as possible.

Mr. Reed was secretly proud of his boy. He had a misgiving that all this praise and attention was not a good thing, but the boy looked so happy, and it was Christmas Eve, with the general feeling of joy in the air. He was curiously moved himself. Perhaps happiness wasn't such a weak and sinful thing after all. It did not seem to ruin the Underhill family.

But he said to Charles as they were nearing home: "I wouldn't make much fuss about the evening. Your mother thinks such things rather foolish."

They all returned in a crowd, laughing and talking and saying merry good-nights. Martha had the key of the basement and they trooped in. Indeed, Martha was so much one of the family that Dr. Hoffman paid her a deal of respect.

Father was up-stairs in the sitting-room reading his paper. He glanced up and nodded.

"Oh!" cried Hanny, "where's mother? The house looks so dark and dull and not a bit Christmassy. It was all so splendid, and oh, Father! Charles sung like an angel, didn't he, Margaret? They made him sing over again, and he looked really beautiful. And there were two Chinese girls at the fair, such queer little things," she flushed, for the word recalled Lily Ludlow. "Their hands were as soft as silk, and when they talked—well, you can't imagine it! It sounded like knocking little blocks all around and making the corners click. But where is mother?"

"Mother is going to stay up to Steve's all night. They wanted her to help them."

"Oh, dear! It won't be any Christmas without her," cried the little girl ruefully.

"Oh, she'll be home in the morning, likely."

"Hanny, it is after eleven, and you must go to bed," said Margaret.

"I'd just like to stay up all night, once. And can't I hang up my stocking?"

"I'll see to that. Come, dear. And boys, go to bed."



CHAPTER XIX

WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING

The boys tried to be merry with a big M to it, on Christmas morning. But something was lacking. The stockings hung in a row, and there were piles of gifts below them. Books and books and books! They were all too old for playthings now. Hanny had two white aprons ruffled all round, and a pretty pair of winter boots. They were beginning to make them higher in the ankle and more dainty, and stitching them in colors. These were done with two rows of white. She had a set of the Lucy books that all little girls were delighted with. Oh, I do wonder what they would have said to Miss Alcott and Susan Coolidge and Pansy! But they were very happy in what they had. Jim was delighted with two new volumes of Cooper. Ben had a splendid pair of high boots, and three new shirts Margaret and the little girl had made for him.

But, oh, dear! what was it all without mother! They missed her bright, cheery voice, her smile and her ample person that had a warm buoyant atmosphere. They would have been glad to hear her scold a little about the litter of gifts around, and their lagging so when breakfast was ready.

To make the little girl laugh her father told her that once a man was driving along a country road when he saw seven children sitting on the doorstep crying, and seven more on the fence. Startled at so much grief he paused to inquire what had happened, and with one voice they answered:

"Our mother's gone away and left us all alone!"

"There's only seven of us with Martha, and I am not crying," said the little girl spiritedly.

Joe dropped in just as they were seated at the table, and whispered something to his father and Margaret. He seemed very merry, and Mr. Underhill gave a satisfied nod. He brought Margaret a beautiful cameo brooch, which was considered a fine thing then, and put a pretty garnet ring on Hanny's finger.

Hanny guessed what the word had been. Mother was going to bring Steve and Dolly down to dinner. Dolly had changed her mind, for she had said she could not come. That was what they were smiling about.

At ten Stephen brought mother down in the sleigh, and they were more mysterious than ever.

Peggy and the little girl must bundle up and go back with him, for he had such a wonderful Christmas present to show them.

"But why didn't you bring Dolly and stay to dinner? And oh, Mother! Christmas morning wasn't splendid at all without you!" said the little girl, clinging to her.

Mrs. Underhill stooped and kissed her and said in a full, tremulous sort of voice:

"Run and get your hood, dear, and don't keep Stephen waiting."

The horses tossed their heads and whinnied as if they too, said, "Don't keep us waiting." The sun was shining and all the air seemed infused with joy, though it was a sharp winter day. The weather knew its business fifty years ago and didn't sandwich whiffs of spring between snow-banks. And the children were blowing on tin and wooden horns, and wishing everybody Merry Christmas as they ran around with the reddest of cheeks.

Steve took Hanny on his lap. What did make him so laughing and mysterious? He insisted that Hanny should guess, and then kept saying, "Oh, you're cold, cold, cold as an icehouse! You should have put on your guessing cap," and the little girl felt quite teased.

They stopped down-stairs to get good and warm and take off their wraps. Then Stephen led them up to the front room. It was a kind of library and sitting-room, but no one was there. In the window stood a beautiful vase of flowers. Hanny ran over to that. Roses at Christmastide were rare indeed. "Here," said Stephen, catching her arm gently.

She turned to the opposite corner. There was an old-fashioned mahogany cradle, black with age, and polished until it shone like glass. It was lined overhead with soft light-blue silk, and had lying across it a satin coverlet that had grown creamy with age, full of embroidered flowers dull and soft with their many years of bloom.

On the pillow lay her brother's Christmas gift that had come while the bells were still ringing out their message first heard on the plains of Judea.

"Oh!" with a soft, wondering cry. She knelt beside the cradle that had come from Holland a century and a half ago, and held many a Beekman baby. A strange little face with a tinge of redness in it, a round broad forehead with a mistiness of golden fuzz, a pretty dimpled chin and a mouth almost as round as a cherry. Just at that instant he opened the bluest of eyes, stared at Hanny with a grave aspect, tried to put his fist into his mouth and with a soft little sound dropped to sleep again.

A wordless sense of delight and mystery stole over the little girl. She seemed lifted up to Heaven's very gates. She reached out her hand and touched the little velvet fist, not much larger than her doll's, but oh, it had the exquisite inspiration of life and she felt the wonderful thrill to her very heart. Something given to them all that could love back when its time of loving came, when it knew of the fond hearts awaiting the sweetness of affection.

"That's my little boy," said Stephen, with the great pride and joy of fatherhood. "Dolly's and all of ours. Isn't it a Christmas worth having?"

"Oh!" she said again with a wordless delight in her heart, while her eyes were filled with tears, so deeply had the consciousness moved her. There was a sort of poetical pathos in the little girl, sacred to love. She had never known of any babies in the family save Cousin Retty's, and that had not appealed with this delicious nearness.

Stephen bent over and kissed her. Margaret came to look at the baby.

"He's a fine fellow!" said the new father. "We wanted to surprise you," looking at Hanny and smiling. "We made Joe promise not to tell you. And now you are all aunts and uncles, and we have a grandmother of our very own."

"Oh!" This time Hanny laughed softly. There were no words expressive enough.

"And now you will have to knit him some little boots, and save your money to buy him Christmas gifts. And what's that new work—crochet him a cap. Dear me! how hard you will have to work."

"There were such lovely little boots at Epiphany Fair. If I only had known! But I'm quite sure I can learn to make them;" her eyes lighting with anticipation. "Oh, when will he be big enough to hold?"

"In a month or so. You will have to come up on Saturdays and take care of him."

"Can I? That will be just splendid."

He was silent. He could not tease the little girl in the sacredness of her new, all-pervading love.

The nurse entered. She had a soft white kerchief pinned about her shoulders, and side puffs of hair done over little combs. She nodded to Margaret and said "the baby was a very fine child, and that Mrs. Underhill was sleeping restfully. They had been so glad to have Mr. Underhill's mother." Then she patted the blanket over the baby, and said "it had been worked for his great, great grandmother, and they put it over every Beekman baby for good luck."

Margaret declared they must return. Mother was tired, and the Archers were coming up to dinner after church.

"Could I kiss it just once?" asked Hanny timidly.

"Oh, yes." The nurse smiled and turned down the blanket, and the baby opened his eyes.

Hanny felt that in some mysterious manner he knew she loved him. Her lips touched the soft little cheek, the tiny hands.

"He's very good now," said the nurse; "but he can cry tremendously. He has strong lungs."

Stephen took them back and then went down to Father Beekman's. There was so much to do, the little girl and the big girl were both busy enough, helping mother. The boys and her father had gone out, but they had all heard the wonderful tidings.

Hanny ran back and forth waiting on Martha and carrying dishes to the table, so there would be no flurry at the last.

"Hello, Aunt Hanny!" laughed Jim, bouncing in with the reddest of cheeks. "You'll have to grow fast now to keep up with your dignity. Well, is he Beekman Dutch or Underhill English?"

"He's just lovely. His eyes are blue as the sky."

"Hurrah for Steve! Well, that was a Christmas!"

Her father was coming with the two cousins, and she ran up-stairs to wish them Merry Christmas and tell her father what she thought of the baby. The baby and the Christmas sermon and the rheumatism and cold weather seemed to get jumbled all together, and for a little while everybody talked. Then John and Joe made their appearance, and Martha rang the bell, though the savory odors announced that all was ready.

They had a very delightful dinner. Mrs. Underhill had a pretty new consequence about her, and was not a bit teased by being called grandmother. Dolly's advent into the family had been a source of delight, for she fraternized so cordially with every member. And of late she and Mother Underhill had been tenderly intimate, for Mrs. Beekman was kept much at home by her husband's failing health.

When they had lingered over the mince pies which certainly were delicious, and finished their coffee, they went up-stairs to chat around the fire. After the dishes were dried Hanny ran into the Deans' to interchange a little Christmas talk and tell the girls about Stephen's baby. She was so excited that all other gifts seemed of little moment.

Daisy Jasper had been confined to the house for a week with a severe cold.

"I began to think you had forgotten me," she said, as Hanny entered the beautiful parlor. "And Doctor Joe said you had something special to tell me. Oh, what is it?" for the little girl's face was still in a glow of excitement.

"I can never have any nieces or nephews because there is only one of me," said Daisy, with a sad little smile. "I almost envy you. If I could have one of your brothers out of them all I should choose Dr. Joe. He is so tender and sweet and patient. He used to take me in his arms and let me cry when crying wasn't good for me either. I was so miserable and full of pain, and he always understood."

Hanny was so moved by pity for Daisy that she felt almost as if she could give him away—she had so much. Not quite, however, for he was very dear to her. And when she looked into Daisy's lovely face and remembered her beautiful name and glanced at the elegant surroundings, it seemed strange there should be anything to wish for. But health outweighed all.

Daisy was delighted with the Christmas Eve anniversary, the singing of "bonnie Prince Charlie," the fair, and was wonderfully interested in the little Chinese girls. She meant to send some money toward their education.

Mr. Bradbury was to give a concert in February with the best child singers of the different schools. Charles was to take part, his father had promised him that indulgence.

"I hope I shall get strong enough to go," began Daisy wistfully. "It is the sitting up straight that tires my back, but last year it was so much worse. Doctor Joe says I shall get well and be almost like other girls. See how much I have gone to school. It is so splendid to learn for your own very self. You don't feel so helpless."

Daisy's Christmas had been a beautiful Geneva watch. We had not gone to watchmaking then and had to depend on our neighbors over the water for many choice articles. And a watch was a rare thing for a little girl to possess.

When she went home Hanny had to get out her pretty new work and show the visitors. She had nearly four yards of lovely blue edging she was making for Margaret, but she had not hinted at its destination.

"Why," exclaimed Aunt Nancy, "I've seen mittens knit with a hook something like that. Not open work and fancy, but all tight and out of good stout yarn. They're very lasting."

"I do believe they're like what Uncle David makes," said John. "Don't you remember, he used to give us a pair now and then?"

"Well, I declare, there's nothing new under the sun!" laughed Aunt Patience.

Hanny was quite sure there could not be any connection between her delicate lace and stout yarn mittens, and she meant to ask Uncle David the next time they made a visit. Both ladies praised her a good deal, especially when they heard of the shirts she had been making with Margaret.

"It used to be a great thing," said Aunt Patience. "When I was six years old I had knit a pair of stockings by myself, and when I was eight I had made my father a shirt. All the gussets were stitched, just as you do a bosom. My, what a sight of fine work there was then!"

"I'll tell you something I read the other day in a queer old book I picked up down at the office," began Ben. "When little Prince Edward was two years old, the Princess Elizabeth who was afterward queen made him a shirt or smock, as it was called, with drawn work and embroidery. And she was only six."

"Children have more lessons to study now," said Mrs. Underhill, half in apology. "And Hanny has done some drawn work for me, and embroidered some aprons."

"And Queen Elizabeth spent enough time later on with gay gallants," remarked Aunt Nancy. "So I do not know as her early industry held out."

"I'd rather have had her splendid reign than to have made shirts for an army," declared Ben.

"Well, we all have our duties in this world," sighed Aunt Patience. "I learned to make shirts, but I never had a husband or boys to make them for."

They all laughed at that. But what would a little girl say now if she had to stitch down the middle of a shirt bosom, following a drawn thread, and taking up only two threads at every stitch?

There certainly was great need of Elias Howe.

The visitors declared they must get home by dark. There was the poor cat, and the fires must need looking after. Mrs. Underhill was fain to keep them to tea, but instead packed them up a basket of cold turkey and some delicious boiled ham, a dozen or two crullers, and a nice mince pie. John was to see the old ladies home.

When they were gone Hanny went up to the "spare" room, for in one drawer of the best bureau she had kept her beautiful doll, which had never been permanently named. She opened it and kneeling down raised the napkin that covered her, as one tucks in a little child.

Yes, she was lovely, really prettier than Stephen's baby, she felt, though she would not say it. But when you came to kiss on the cold wax—ah, that was the test. And Stephen's baby would grow and walk and talk, and have cunning little teeth and curly hair, maybe. She did so love curly hair.

"Dolly," she began gravely, "I am going to put you away. I shall be eleven next May, and though I shall always be father's little girl, I shall be growing up and too old to play with dolls. Then I shall have so much to do. And I should love the real live baby best. That would hurt your feelings. Sometime there may be another little girl who will be as glad to have you come on Christmas Day as I was. I shall love you just the same, but you have a different kind of love for something that is human and can put truly arms around your neck and kiss you. When girls are little they don't mind the difference so much. You won't feel real lonesome, for dolls don't. We only make believe they do. And now I shall not make believe any more, because I am getting to know all about real things. There are so many real and strange things in the world that are lovely to think about, and I seem to have learned so much to-day. I can't feel quite as I did yesterday."

She put on the wadded satin cloak and the dainty hood and laid it back in the box. There was room for the muff and the travelling shawl. She put the cover on softly. She folded the pretty garments and packed them in the corner, and spread the towel over them all.

There was no morbid feeling of sacrifice or sense of loss. A great change had come over her, a new human affection had entered her soul. She had a consciousness that could not be put into words. She had outgrown her doll.

Margaret was going to an oratorio with Dr. Hoffman. The boys were to attend the Christmas celebration at Allen Street church with the Deans. Hanny had not cared to go. Her mother kept watching her with a curious feeling as if she saw or suspected some change in her.

The room settled to quiet. The fire burned drowsily. Mrs. Underhill took the big rocking-chair at one side, and Hanny came and settled herself on a footstool, leaning her arms on her mother's knee.

"I shall not hang up my stocking next Christmas," she said, in a soft, slow tone. "It is very nice when you believe in it, and real fun afterward when you don't believe in it but like it; when you seem little to yourself."

"You do grow out of it," replied her mother; but at heart she was half-sorry. "You get just the same things. At least you get suitable things."

Was she glad to have them all growing up?

"Dear me, there's no little children," she continued, with a sigh. "You'll be eleven next May, Hanny."

"But there's Stephen's lovely little baby. Doesn't it seem just as if God had sent him at the right time, when we were all growing big?"

She took the little girl's hands in hers and said dreamily, "You were sent that way, at the right time. I was so glad to have you. I can recall it so plainly. Old Mother Tappan was there. I was so afraid you'd be a boy, and we had boys enough. And she said, 'Oh, what a nice little girl. You'll be glad enough, Mrs. Underhill.' And so I was."

"As glad as Stephen?" said Hanny, with shining eyes.

"Yes, dear. Even if it wasn't Christmas. You were a welcome little May flower."

In Bethlehem of Judea the other child had been born with the mighty significance of a great gift to the world, a gift that had made Christmas possible for all time to come. Just how the world was redeemed no little girl of ten or so could understand. But it was redeemed because the little child of Bethlehem bore the sins of the whole world in His manhood. Ah, no wonder they wrote under the picture of His mother, when He was gone, "Mater Dolorosa." But the years of His childhood must have been sweet to remember. "The young child and His mother." The wise men coming with their gifts. The sweet song going around the world, the great love.

Her mother's hands relaxed from their clasp. She was very tired and had fallen asleep. Her father folded his paper and looked over at her wistfully. Hanny came and dropped softly on his knee and his strong, tender arms enclosed her.

Was there any child quite like the little girl? They had been so proud and happy over Stephen, so delighted with Margaret. He had loved them all, and they were a nice household of children. But they were growing up and going their ways. They would be making new homes. Ah, it would be many a long year before the little girl would think of such a thing. They would keep her snug and safe, "to have and to hold," and he smiled to himself at the literal rendering.

The chime of the clock roused Mrs. Underhill. It was Hanny's bedtime, and she had been so busy all day, so full of excitement, too, that her checks had bloomed with roses. She glanced across. The fair flaxen head was on the shoulder half hidden by the protecting arm. The other head, showing many silver threads now, drooped over a little. The picture brought a mist to her eyes, and there was a half sob in her throat. The same thought came into her mind. She would be their "little girl" when the other one had gone to her new home.

She could not disturb them. It was "good will and peace" everywhere.

THE END