"To a respectable bath house," was Miss Barnes's order.

Thomas bowed, reached his seat somehow, and drove off.

"Not pretty, decidedly," thought Miss Barnes, looking steadily at the wondering face opposite hers, "but at least not coarse. Dress will improve her."

At the door of the bathing rooms, Thomas again threw open the carriage door. Miss Barnes went in with Nora, gave her into the hands of the young woman in charge, with directions to have her thoroughly bathed and combed, and otherwise made ready for new clothes that she would bring.

The amazed young woman marched off with the unresisting Nora, and Miss Barnes went shopping. She bought a complete outfit, from hat to shoes, and in an hour returned to the bath rooms, to find Nora waiting. She was soon dressed, much to her own surprise, for she hardly knew the names of half the articles she had on, and they were once more in the carriage. As for Thomas, he thought wonders would never cease that morning.

As they rolled home, Miss Barnes said:—

"Now, Nora, you're to live with me and be my girl. You're not Nora Dennis; you're Nora Barnes. You're to forget your old life—at least as much as you can," she added, seeing a shade come over Nora's face. "And on no account are you to speak of it to the servants in my house. Do you understand?"

"Yes 'm," said Nora.

"I shall try to make your life happy," Miss Barnes went on a little more tenderly. "I shall educate you"—

"Please, ma'am, what's that?" asked Nora timidly.

"Teach you to read and write," said Miss Barnes, wincing as she reflected how much there was to do in this neglected field.

"And, Nora," she went on, "I shall expect you to do as I tell you, and always to tell me the truth."

"Shall I stay at your house and be warm?" asked Nora.

"Always, poor child, if you try to do right," said Miss Barnes.

"Are these things mine?" was the next question, looking lovingly at her pretty blue dress and cloak.

"Yes, and you shall have plenty of clothes, and always enough to eat, Nora. I hope you will never again be so miserable as I found you."

Nora could not comprehend what had come to her. She sat there as though stupefied, only now and then whispering to herself, "Always enough to eat, always warm."

"Thomas," said Miss Barnes, in her most peremptory manner, as he held the carriage-door for her to alight, "I especially desire that you should not mention to any one where I got this child. I want to make a new life for her, and I trust to your honor to keep her secret."

Thomas touched his hat.

"Indeed, you may be sure of me, Miss Barnes."

And faithfully he kept his word, although all the household was in consternation when Miss Barnes installed the child as her adopted daughter, procured a governess for her, had a complete outfit of suitable clothes prepared, and, above all, took unwearied pains to teach her all the little things necessary to place her on a level with the girls she would meet when she went to school.

Nora soon learned the ways and manners of a lady. She seemed to be instinctively delicate and lady-like. She was pretty, too, when her face grew plump and the hungry look went out of her eyes.

Miss Barnes, though on the sharp lookout, never discovered a vice in her. Whatever may have been her original faults, she seemed to have shed them with her rags, and the great gratitude she felt for her benefactor overwhelmed everything. She seemed to live but to do something for Miss Barnes.

To Nora, life was like a dream—a dream of heaven, at that. Always warm, always fed, always safe from roughness, surrounded by things so beautiful she scarcely dared to touch them; every want attended to before it was felt. It was too wonderful to seem true. In dreams she would often return to the desolate shanty, where the winds blew through the cracks, and the rickety old stove was no better fed than her mother and herself.

Five years rolled away. Miss Barnes grew to love this child of poverty very much, and to be grieved that she showed none of the joy of youth. For Nora walked around as though in a dream. She was always anxious to please, always cheerful, but never gay. She was too subdued. She never spoke loud. She never slammed a door, she never laughed.

"Nora," said she one day, after studying her face some time in silence, "why are you not like other young girls?"

"Why am I unlike them?" asked Nora, looking up from the book she was reading.

"You're not a bit like any young girl I ever saw," said Miss Barnes; "you're too sober, you never laugh and play."

"I don't know how to play," said Nora, in a low tone; "I never did."

"Poor child," said Miss Barnes, "you never had any childhood. I wanted to give you one, but you were too old when I took you. Why, you're a regular old woman."

"Am I?" said Nora, with a smile.

"I don't know what I'll do to you," Miss Barnes went on. "I'd like to make you over."

"I wish you could," said Nora earnestly. "I try to be like other girls, but somehow I can't. I seem always to have a sort of weight on my heart."

"Nora, isn't there something you would like that I haven't done for you? Haven't you a wish?"

"Oh!" cried Nora, "I can't wish for anything, you make me too happy, but"—she hesitated, and tears began to fall fast—"I can't forget my old life, it comes back in my dreams, it is always before me. I don't want to tell you, but I must. I can't help thinking about the many miserable girls, such as I was, living in horrid shanties, starved, frozen, beaten, wretched."

"Then you have a wish?" said Miss Barnes softly.

"Oh, it seems so ungrateful!" Nora sobbed. "Such a poor return for the life you have given me! I have tried to forget. I can't tell what is right for me to do. I'm sorry I said anything."

"No, Nora," said Miss Barnes promptly. "You should tell me all your wishes and feelings. If they are wrong, I can help you outgrow them; if right"—she hesitated—"why, I must help you."

Nora fell on her knees with the most impulsive movement Miss Barnes, had ever seen.

"Oh, I do believe you are an angel!"

"Far from it, Nora," said Miss Barnes smiling, "but I've set out to make you happy, and if I find whims and notions in your head, I suppose I'll have to follow them out. But seriously, dear child, I must say I have had a little uneasy feeling of responsibility in my heart ever since I've had you. And there's nothing to hinder my being as odd as I please, and now let me hear your plans."

"I have no plans. I have only longings to do something for them."

Well; plans grew fast as they always do when planners are anxious to do something. Long into the night they talked, and the very next day the work began. Nora captured a poor little girl who came to beg, and took her in to Miss Barnes, in spite of the horror of the servants. They found she had no parents, and decided to take her, and Nora went on to make her decent, with more pleasure than she had ever known.

So it went on; before the end of a month, Miss Barnes found herself more interested than she had been in anything. And Nora grew bright and happy as the months rolled by, and one after another wretched girl was gathered out of the streets and brought to a home.

As soon as one girl was trained and fitted to take a place in some one's kitchen, or sewing-room, or nursery, a dozen places opened to her. By telling a little of her story, Miss Barnes interested her new mistress in the girl, who was thus started out in a useful, independent life.

This institution, though it never had a name, grew and flourished, and Nora still lives in the Barnes Home, manages the Barnes income, and "lends a hand" wherever needed.

* * * * *

"And that's the story of how the Barnes Home came to be," said Mrs. Wilson, in ending.

"And was that nice lady that you went to see about a maid," cried Kristy eagerly, turning to her mother, "was she Nora?"

"Yes," said her mother, "she was Nora."

"That was fine!" said Kristy. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Wilson."

"That story of a great charity, started through one poor girl," said Mrs. Wilson, "reminds me of another that I heard lately; shall I tell it, Kristy?"

"Oh, do!" said Kristy.



CHAPTER IX

ONE LITTLE CANDLE

This story is about a girl not much older than you, who had a great trouble come upon her, some years ago. Her father who was—I'm sorry to say—a drunkard, had at last died, leaving Alice Rawson, and her brother a little older, to take care of their invalid mother.

The trouble that came upon her, as I said, was the finding that the brother, who was steady at his work, and proud to support the family, began to go out every evening. The great dread seized her that he would follow in the footsteps of his father. They had suffered so much from the father's habits, that this was almost more than she could bear, and she felt sure that it would kill her mother.

She tried every way she could think of to entertain her brother at home, but she could not make it gay and lively as it was in the saloon where the boys met, and when she tried to coax him to stay at home, he answered her that it was awful dull in the evening after a long day's work.

Alice could not deny this, and she had not a word to say when one evening he ended with, "You can't expect a fellow to stay mewed up at home all the time. Now look here," as he saw the tears come into Alice's eyes, "you needn't fret about me, Sis. I'm bound to take care of myself, but I must have a little pleasure after working all day. Good-by; I'll be home by nine."

But he was not home by nine, nor by ten, and the clock had struck eleven when Alice heard his step. She hurried to the door to let him in. His face was flushed, and his breath—alas!—reminded her of her father's.

He made some excuse and hurried off to bed, and Alice sank into a chair in the sitting-room. She was shocked. She was grieved. This was the first time Jack had showed signs of being under the influence of strong drink, and she felt as if she could not bear it.

A month before, they had laid in a drunkard's grave their father, and over his terrible death-bed, Jack had promised their mother that he would not follow in his steps.

"Yet now—so soon—he has begun," thought Alice, sitting there alone in the cold. "And how can I blame him, poor boy!" she went on, "when it is so dull and stupid for him here? It's no wonder he prefers the pleasant warm room, the lights, the gay company, the games that he gets at Mason's. Oh, why aren't good things as free as bad ones!" she cried out in her distress.

"But what can I do?" was the question to which her thoughts ever came back. "I must save Jack, for he's all mother and I have; but how?"

"What can one girl do, without money and without friends—almost?" thought Alice, remembering, with a shudder, that a drunkard's daughter is apt to have few influential friends.

Alice Rawson was clear-headed though young. She thought the matter over during the next day, as she went about her work in the house, waiting on her invalid mother, making the cottage tidy, and cooking their plain meals.

"It's no use to talk," she said to herself; "Jack means to do what's right. And it's even worse to scold or be cross to him, for that only makes him stay away more." And she gave the pillow she was stirring up a savage poke to relieve her feelings.

"I know, too," she went on, pausing with the other pillow in her hand, "that when he's there with the boys, it's awful hard never to spend a cent when the others do. It looks mean, and Jack hates being mean;" and she flung the pillow back into its place with such spirit that it went over on to the floor.

"What are you banging about so for?" asked her mother, from the next room.

"Oh, nothing. I was thinking, mother," she answered. And she went on thinking.

"What would be best would be to have some other place just as pleasant, and warm, and free as Mason's,—some good place." Alice sighed at this thought.

"It can't be here at home, because it takes so much money to have it warm and light; and besides, his friends wouldn't feel free to come, and it would be lonely for him."

"Alice, what are you muttering about?" called Mrs. Rawson.

"Nothing, mother; I'm only making a plan."

"If I could get books and papers," she went on, closing the door, and starting for the kitchen; "but Jack is too tired to read much."

Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue.

"I wonder—I do wonder why a place couldn't be fixed—a room somewhere! I believe people would help if they only thought how good it would be for boys. That would be splendid!" And she looked anything but a statue now, for she fairly beamed with delight at the thought.

"I don't suppose I can do much alone," she said later, as the plan grew more into shape; "but it's for Jack, and that'll help me talk to people, I'm sure, and at least I can try."

She did try. Without troubling her mother with her plans,—for she knew she would be worried and think of a dozen objections to it,—in her delicate state of health,—Alice hurried through with her work, put on her things, and went to call first on Mr. Smith, a grocer. She happened to know that at the back of Mr. Smith's store was a room opening on a side street, which he had formerly rented for a cobbler's shop, but which was now empty.

Alice's heart fluttered wildly a moment, when she stood before the grocer in his private office, where she was sent when she asked of the clerk an interview with Mr. Smith.

"You are Rawson's daughter, I believe," was Mr. Smith's greeting.

"Yes," said Alice, "I am Alice Rawson, and you'll think I am crazy, I'm afraid, when I tell you my errand," she went on, trembling. "But oh, Mr. Smith! if you remember my father before—before"—

"I do, child," said the grocer kindly, supposing she had come to ask for help.

"Then you'll not wonder," she went on bravely, "that I am going to try every way to save my brother."

"Is your brother in danger?" asked Mr. Smith. "And what can I do?"

"He is in danger," said Alice earnestly, "of doing just as father did, and so are lots of other boys, and what you can do is to let me have Johnson's old shop, free of rent for a little while, to make an experiment—if I can get help," she added warmly.

"But what will you do? I don't understand," said Mr. Smith.

"What will I do? Oh, I'll try to make a place as pleasant as Mason's saloon, that shan't cost anything, and I'll try to get every boy and young man to go there, and not to Mason's. If they could have a nice, warm place of their own, Mr. Smith, don't you think they would go there?" she asked anxiously.

"I don't know but they would," said the grocer; "but it's an experiment. I don't see where you'll get things to put in, or your fire, or anything to make it rival Mason's. However, I'm busy now and can't talk more, and as you're in earnest and the cause is good, I'll let you have the room to try the plan."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Alice.

"Here's the key," taking that article down from a nail. "Say no more, child, I couldn't rent it this winter anyway," as she tried to speak.

Alice walked out with her precious key, feeling as if the whole thing was done. But it was far from that.

Her next visit—she had carefully planned them all out—was to a man who sold wood; for in that village wood was the only fuel.

This man, Mr. Williams, had a son who was somewhat dissipated, therefore he was ready to listen patiently to Alice's pleading, and to help in any really practical plan. He listened interestedly, and promised to give a cord of cut wood to begin with, and if it proved a success, to give enough to run the fireplace—there was no stove—all the evenings of that winter.

Next, Alice went to the finest house in the village, where lived Mrs. Burns, a wealthy lady, whose son was wild and gave her anxiety.

"She must pity mother and me," thought Alice, as she walked up the broad walk to the house, "and I'm sure she'll help."

She did. She was surprised at Alice's bravery, but warmly approved of her plan. "You'll want books and papers," she said, "and you must have hot coffee always ready."

"I hadn't dared to think of so much," said Alice.

"But you must have coffee," repeated Mrs. Burns, "or they'll miss their beer too much; and you must charge enough to pay for it, say two cents a cup; I think it could be made for that."

"But then we must have some one to make it," said Alice thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Mrs. Burns, "and I think I know the very woman—Mrs. Hart. She is poor, and I know will be glad, for a little wages (which I shall pay her), to spend her evenings there, making coffee. She's a jolly sort of a person, too, and I think would be just the one to make the boys feel at home.

"And I'll do more," went on the kind-hearted woman, "I'll give you an old-fashioned bookcase I have upstairs, and some books to start a library. Other ladies will give you more, and you'll have it full, no doubt."

After leaving Mrs. Burns, Alice's work was much easier, for that lady gave her a little subscription book, in which she entered Mr. Smith's gift of the room-rent, Mr. Williams's gift of the wood, and her own of the hire of the woman to tend it, a dozen books in a bookcase, and two comfortable chairs.

Alice called at nearly every house in the village, and almost every one gave something. Several gave books; two or three others agreed to send their weekly papers when they had read them; many gave one chair each; three or four gave plain tables, games,—backgammon and checkers,—and two or three bright colored prints were promised.

Red print curtains for the windows, and cups and saucers for the coffee, came from the village storekeeper, a teakettle to hang over the fire, and a tin coffee-pot, came from the tin-shop; cheap, plated teaspoons from the jeweler; two copies of the daily paper and promise of lots of exchanges, from the editor of the only paper.

In fact, a sort of enthusiasm seemed to be aroused on the subject, and when Alice went home that night, her little book had a list of furniture enough to make the room as pleasant as could be desired.

The next day was quite as busy. The woman Mrs. Burns had engaged came to put the room in order, and after it had a thorough scrubbing, Alice went out to collect the furniture. The village expressman, who owned a hand-cart, had subscribed his services to the plan, and Alice went with him, book in hand, and gathered up the gifts.

The floor was covered with fresh sawdust—the butcher sent that; the gay curtains were up, the bookcase full of books was arranged, some tables were covered with papers, and others with games, a rousing fire was built in the fireplace, the tea-kettle was singing away merrily, and at a side table with cups and coffee things, sat Mrs. Hart, when Alice asked Jack to go somewhere with her. He consented though a good deal surprised. She brought him to this room.

"What's this?" asked Jack, as they turned down the street. A sign was over the door (Mr. Dover, the sign-painter gave that) of "COFFEE-ROOM." "This is something new."

"Yes," said Alice, "let's go in."

Jack was too surprised to reply, and followed his sister as she opened the door.

There sat smiling Mrs. Hart, with knitting in hand, a delightful odor of coffee in the air, and a sign over her table which said "Coffee two-cents."

"Let's have some," said Jack; "how good it smells!"

"Since you went out, Miss Alice," said Mrs. Hart, as she poured the two cups, "a big package of coffee—ten pounds at the least—and another of sugar has most mysteriously appeared;" and she nodded towards the grocer's part of the house, to indicate the giver.

"Why, what have you to do with it?" asked Jack, looking sharply at Alice.

"She!" exclaimed Mrs. Hart. "Don't you know? She got it up; it's all her doing—everything in this room."

"No, no, Mrs. Hart," protested Alice, "I didn't give a single thing."

"Except your time and the plan, and everything," said Mrs. Hart warmly.

"What does it mean? Tell me, Alice," asked Jack; and she told him. "And the room is for you, Jack, and the other boys; and every evening there'll be a bright fire and hot coffee, and Mrs. Hart to make it, and I hope—oh, I do hope—you'll come here and have a good time every night," she ended.

Jack was touched. "Ally, you're a trump! and I'll do it sure."

And he did. At first when the story got out, all the boys came from curiosity to see what one girl had done; and after that they continued to come because it was the pleasantest place in town and all their own.

No irksome restraints were put upon the boys, and there were no visitors who came to give them temperance lectures or unwelcome advice; no boy was asked to read book or paper, and no one was told how much better for him was coffee than beer. This, each one found out for himself, in the best way—by experience.

Every evening, before it was time for the boys to begin to come, Alice would run down to see that everything was right, that the fire was bright, the coffee ready, and Mrs. Hart in her place. Then she would open the bookcase, select three or four of the most interesting looking books, and lay them around on the tables, in a careless way, as if they were accidentally left there.

Nor did she let people forget about it. As often as once a week, she went to the houses of those most interested, and received from one the weekly papers that had been read, from another a fresh book or magazine, and from a third some new game or a pretty print to put on the wall.

Coffee and the things to put in it, Alice had no need to ask for. The two cents a cup proved to be more than enough to pay for it.

Promptly at half-past nine Mrs. Hart gathered up the things and washed the cups and saucers, and as the clock struck ten she put out the lights and locked the door.

Books and papers did their silent work, and before spring the young men grew ashamed of owing their comforts to charity, so they agreed among themselves to pay a small sum weekly toward expenses. It was not binding on any one, but nearly every one was glad to do it, and by this means, before another winter, the coffee-room was an independent establishment.

The power it was among those boys could not be told, till years afterwards, when it was found that nearly every one who had spent his evenings there had become a sober, honest citizen, while those who preferred the saloon, filled drunkards' graves, or lived criminals, and a pest upon society.

On Jack himself, the effect was perhaps the most striking. As Alice had started the thing, he could not help feeling it his business to see that the boys had a good time, and also, to keep order among them. Mrs. Hart soon found that he was a sort of special policeman, always ready to settle difficulties, and make the boys behave themselves if necessary—which it seldom was.

Feeling the responsibility of his position and influence, brought out in him a manliness of character he had never before shown, and when he became a man in years, no one could have the slightest fear that Jack Rawson would ever follow in the downward steps of his father. And all this he owed to the fact that Alice tried what one girl could do.

It is Shakespeare who says,—

"How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world."

"You said it was going on now," said Kristy, as Mrs. Wilson paused.

"Yes, it is; I was in that town a few days ago, and one of the neighbors told me the whole story."

"That's a good deal for one girl to do," said Kristy.

"I know it is," said Mrs. Wilson, "but I know of another girl who did almost as much."

"What did she do?" asked Kristy, all interest.

"She conquered a crusty old woman, who was soured to all the world."

"Conquered her?" asked Kristy puzzled.

"Yes; shall I tell you? I see it is raining yet, and mamma's time isn't out."

"Please do!" said Kristy, adding as she turned to her mother, "Mamma, you're getting off too easy."

"Oh, I'm afraid I shall have to make it up later," said mamma, in pretended dismay.

"Indeed you will," said Kristy, with a laugh; "I shan't let you off a single story."

"We'll see," said mamma smiling, as Mrs. Wilson began.



CHAPTER X

THE LOCKET TOLD

This is about a girl who drove the village cows out to pasture every morning and back to the village every evening. She had to pass a small cottage, almost hidden with flowers, where lived a mysterious woman whom the foolish and ignorant children of the neighborhood called "old witch," simply because she had a hump on her back and was rarely seen, except when she rushed out to drive away some naughty child trying to steal her flowers through the fence. She attended to her garden very early in the morning before other people were out of bed, and so was rarely seen except on these occasions.

One day she was sitting at her window, behind the blinds as usual, when the girl I spoke of came by with her cows.

"There's that cow-girl again," said Hester Bartlett—for that was her name—"staring at my sweet peas as usual! I must go and drive her away or she'll be putting her hand through the fence to get some. But what a wretched looking creature she is!" she went on thoughtfully, looking more closely. "She's worse off than you are, Hester Bartlett, if she hasn't got a humpback. Hardly a decent rag to her back—not a shoe or stocking—an old boy's hat, picked out of a gutter likely. And how she does stare! looks as if she'd eat the flowers. Well anyway," she went on more slowly, "she's got good taste; she never turns an eye on my finest flowers, but stands glued to the sweet peas."

Another silence; the ragged girl still spellbound without; the little, humpbacked mistress of the house peering through the blinds, an unusual feeling of pity restraining her from going to the door and putting to flight the strange, shy girl who seemed so fond of sweet peas.

"I've a good mind to give her some," was the kind thought that next stirred her heart, "but I suppose she'd run away if I spoke to her, or call me old witch as the rest of 'em do," she went on bitterly, talking to herself, as people do who live alone; then adding, "Well, I can't stand here all day; I must go on with my work," she took up a watering-pot she had filled, and started for her little flower patch.



The instant the door opened, the flower-lover at the fence started on a run after the cows, which finding themselves not urged from behind, had stopped and were contentedly cropping the grass beside the road.

In a few minutes she had them safely shut into their pasture, and turned back towards the village.

As she passed Miss Hester, that lady was tying up some straggling vines, and almost to her own surprise, moved by her unwonted feeling of pity for the child, she hastily picked half a dozen stems of the fragrant blossoms and held them out.

"Want some?" she said shortly, almost gruffly, to the half-frightened child.

The girl stopped. "Oh, Miss Hester!" she said doubtingly, half afraid of the strange-looking, little woman who lived by herself, and was never known to speak to anybody.

"If you don't want 'em," said Miss Hester savagely, "you needn't have 'em," and she flung the flowers far over the fence and turned away.

Maggie—for that was her name—with a cry of horror sprang eagerly after them, picked them up carefully, shook off the dust, and turned again to the little garden. But Miss Hester had gone in and shut the door, and slowly, but in a state of rapture, the child went on—hugging and caressing her flowers,—to what had been her home since her mother, a year before, had been carried from their poor room to the hospital, and never come back. She lived with a woman who added a bit to her scanty earnings by taking the village cows on their morning and evening journeys, and for this service she gave Maggie a shelter and a share of the scanty food on her table.

When she went with the cows that evening, Maggie looked eagerly into the little garden as she passed, but Miss Hester was not there. Maggie could not see her, but she sat behind her blind looking out eagerly. Could it be to see the child?

Maggie hesitated; she wanted to say "Thank you," yet she was half afraid of the strange, silent woman. She waited a moment, hoping she would come out, but all was still, and slowly and lingeringly at last she went on.

In this odd way began a curious acquaintance between the lonely woman and the still more friendless girl. Sometimes, if Miss Hester happened to be in her garden when Maggie went by, she would half reluctantly toss a flower over the fence, which Maggie always received with delight, while still half afraid of the giver. But generally Hester, with a strange feeling of shyness, managed to be in the house, where strange to say, she hung around the window and seemed unable to settle to anything, till the pale little thing had passed.

So it went on, till winter settled down grim and cold on that New England village, and the cows went no more to the snow-covered pasture, and Maggie—fixed up a bit as to clothes by some kind ladies of the village—went every day to school.

As the weather grew colder, Miss Hester shut herself more and more into her house, and so months passed and the strange acquaintance progressed no farther.

One cold night, after everybody in the little village was snugly tucked into bed, and every light was out, a wind came down from the plains of the great Northwest, and brought with it millions and billions of beautiful dancing flakes of snow, and proceeded to have a grand frolic.

All night long the snow and the wind played around the houses and through the streets, and in the morning when people began to get up and look out, they hardly knew their own village. It seemed to be turned into a strange range of white hills, with here and there a roof or a chimney peeping out. There were no fences, there were no roads, but all was one mass of glittering white, and the wind was still at work tossing the billions of sharp little ice-needles into the face of any one who ventured to peep out, sending a shower of snow into an open door, and piling it up in great drifts in every sheltered spot. So nearly everybody who was comfortable at home, and had plenty to eat in the house, at once decided to stay there. There was no use trying to dig themselves out until the snow stopped falling, and the wind got tired of tossing it about.

The villagers were late in getting up, for the snow before the windows made it dark, and it was nearly nine o'clock when Mrs. Burns said to Maggie, "You must try to get to the well; I'm out of water."

So Maggie put on her coat and mittens, tied her hood down over her ears, took the pail, and went out.

Fortunately, the kitchen door was in a sheltered place, and no snow was piled up before it, but she had a hard time getting through the drifts to the well. However, she did at last succeed in drawing the water and getting back to the door. As she set down the pail, a thought struck her,—"What will become of Miss Hester in this storm?"

She went out again, closing the door softly behind her, and looked toward the cottage, which was not far off, in plain sight. In the place where the little house should be was a great white hill. Maggie floundered through the drifts till she reached the gate, where she had a better view.

The storm held up for a moment, so that Maggie could see over the village. Every house in sight was sending up a thin column of smoke, showing there was life within. Miss Hester's chimney alone was smokeless.

"Dear me!" thought the child, "I'm afraid she's sick, and what'll become of her and the cow—the shed is so far off, and she could never fight her way through the drifts,—she ain't very strong—and so little." Another pause while she strained her eyes to see signs of life about the cottage.

"Well, anyway," she said at last, "she was awful good to me last summer, and I'll see if I can't get there to help her," and she bravely started out.

It was a hopeless-looking task, for between Mrs. Burns's and Hester Bartlett's were drifts that seemed mountain high. Not a soul was in sight, and just then the storm began again, wilder than ever.

But Maggie was not to be daunted; that cold, smokeless chimney gave her a strange feeling of fear, and nerved her for great efforts.

I shall not go with her step by step over her terrible journey, for though the house was near, every step was a struggle and a battle. Many times she fell down and got up staggering and blinded by snow; many times she lost her direction and had to wait till a momentary lull in the storm showed her the forlorn chimney again.

Through unheard-of difficulties she reached the house, her clothes full of the dry, powdery snow, her eyes blinded, her hair a mass of white, and aching in every limb from her efforts and the cold.

The front door was completely buried in snow, and indeed, the whole front of the cottage seemed but a snow mountain. The drifts were lower on the side, so she staggered on towards the kitchen door. As she came near, she saw, to her dismay, that the snow had fallen away, and the door was open.

Now thoroughly alarmed, she struggled on, and reached the step. The snow had fallen inward, and the drift inside was as heavy as that outside.

At first she hesitated to enter the house she had always dreaded, but in an instant she reflected that Miss Hester would not leave her door open if she were able to shut it, and she staggered in. Two steps inside she stumbled over something, and dashing the snow out of her eyes, she saw to her horror, the well-known brown dress of Miss Hester, and sure enough there she lay on the floor, half covered with snow, silent—perhaps dead.

One little scream escaped Maggie's lips, and then she fell on her knees before her. No, she was not dead, but she was unconscious and perfectly cold.

In a moment her own sufferings were forgotten. She did not know or did not care that she was exhausted from her struggles—that she was herself half frozen. She flew to work.

First she dragged Miss Hester away from the snow, with difficulty shut the door, then hurried into the bedroom, brought out a pillow and blanket, put the pillow under Miss Hester's head, wrapped the blanket around her on the floor, and then hurried to the stove.

The fire was ready to light; evidently Miss Hester had opened the door to look out before starting her fire, and the great drift had fallen upon her and knocked her down.

Maggie did not stop to think of all this. She looked around for matches and lighted the fire, then turned her attention to the silent figure on the floor. She chafed her hands and warmed them in her own, which now from excitement were burning, and before long she had the happiness of seeing the closed eyes open and the blood rush back to the white face.

The sight of the child working over her brought Miss Hester to very quickly. She tried to spring up, but fell back too weak to do so. Then she began to talk.

"Where am I? Why are you here? Why can't I get up?"

As quickly as she could, Maggie told her everything. How the village was snowed under, and seeing her chimney without smoke alarmed her, and she had found her on the floor with snow-drifts over her, and had lighted the fire and got the blanket and warmed her.

Long before she had ended her tale, Miss Hester could sit up and see for herself the snow and the condition of the room. Then she thought she could get up, and with the help of Maggie she did, and sat in her chair, strangely enough—as it seemed to her—too weak to stand.

When she was seated, Maggie had stopped—it was different making fires and taking liberties in this kitchen while it seemed necessary to her life, but now that Miss Hester could sit up and look at her, Maggie hesitated. Miss Hester leaned back and closed her eyes and then Maggie said:—

"Please, Miss Hester, may I get you something to eat, and sweep out the snow, and help you?"

"If you will, child," said Miss Hester slowly. "I don't seem to be able to do anything; I shall be very glad to have you."

Then Maggie went to work again, and how she did fly! She put the teakettle on to the now warmed stove; she searched about in the pantry till she found the coffee and the coffee-pot. Then she drew up beside Miss Hester a little table, put on the dishes, and in a word, proceeded to set out as dainty a breakfast as she knew how to get out of what she could find.

All this time Miss Hester had apparently been half asleep, so that Maggie did not like to ask her anything; but she was far from asleep. She was watching eagerly, through half-closed eyelids, everything her neat handmaiden did.

As for Maggie, she had not been so happy since her mother had taught her all sorts of neat household ways. She hunted up the butter and the bread; she made a fragrant cup of coffee and toasted a slice of bread, and when all was ready, she spoke to Miss Hester.

"Please, Miss Hester," she said timidly, "will you drink some coffee? I think you will feel better."

Miss Hester opened her eyes as if just wakened. "Why, how nicely you have got breakfast!" she said; "but here's only one cup and plate! Get another for yourself—you shall have it with me;" and as Maggie hastened, delighted, to do her bidding, she added, "Bring a jar of marmalade from the second shelf, and look for some crullers in a stone crock."

Maggie did as she was bid, and in a few minutes the two strange friends were enjoying their breakfast together.

Miss Hester was confined to her bed several days, with the cold she had taken that fateful morning, and during that time, Maggie did everything for her, every minute she was out of school. When at last Miss Hester was able to be about, she had become so attached to Maggie, and found such comfort in her help, that she was not willing to let her go. Maggie being equally delighted to stay, the arrangement was soon made, and Maggie came to the cottage to live.

The strangest part of the story is yet to come.

When Christmas time drew near, Miss Hester one day, while Maggie was at school, opened some long-closed drawers in her desk to see if she could find something to give Maggie on that day, for she had not forgotten her own youthful days when Christmas was the event of the year.

Among the long-forgotten treasures of the past, she came upon a little locket given her when she was about Maggie's age, by her only brother, who had gone to the war and been killed in battle, severing the last link that bound the solitary girl to the world. Since that, she had lived alone and shrank from all society.

"Poor Eddy!" she said, taking the trinket up in her hands, "how different would have been my life if you had lived! But it's no use keeping these relics of the past; they would much better make some one happy in the present. I think Maggie will like this."

With a sigh she turned over the contents of the drawer, every item of which was associated with her happier days, till she found a fine gold chain which had held the locket around her neck. This she laid aside with the locket, closed and locked the drawer.

When the great day arrived, Maggie, who had not dreamed of a present, was surprised and delighted to receive it. The locket was very pretty, of gold, with a letter B in black enamel on it. Miss Hester hung it around her neck, and was as pleased as Maggie herself to see how pretty it looked.

"I wonder if it will open," said Maggie to herself a little later, when she had taken it off to examine more closely; "I'll try it," and she worked over it a long time but without success.

That was a very busy day in the cottage; that evening was to be a great school exhibition to which all the village was invited. Maggie, who was a bright scholar, had to speak a piece, and Miss Hester had made her a pretty white dress out of an old one of her own.

Maggie never felt so fine in her life as when, her hair smoothly braided by Miss Hester, and tied with a bright ribbon from her old stores, she had put on the white dress, and hung around her neck the cherished locket.

For the first time in her life, she was dressed like other girls, and it was with a very happy heart that she kissed Miss Hester and went to the schoolhouse, regretting only that Miss Hester could not be persuaded to go with her.

After the exercises of the evening were over, a social hour followed, in which ice cream and cake were served, and every one walked around the room to talk with their friends; and now came the surprise of the evening—the most wonderful event in Maggie's life.

Among the familiar villagers, she had noticed a quiet, pleasant-faced man who seemed to be a stranger,—at least she had never seen him before. He had come with the family from the little hotel, and no doubt at their invitation.

This gentleman was walking about, looking with interest at the people, when he came face to face with Maggie. He stopped suddenly; his eyes opened wide, and he seemed strangely moved—almost shocked.

Maggie was frightened, and tried to leave her place, but he stopped her with a low, eager question.

"Little girl, where did you get that locket?"

Maggie supposed he thought she had stolen it, and a bright color rose to her face, as she answered indignantly, "It was given to me to-day."

"By whom?" he cried; "tell me instantly!"

"By Miss Hester," Maggie replied, trying again to get away, for his eager manner frightened her.

"Miss Hester!" he repeated, in a disappointed tone, then muttering to himself, "It can't be! yet it is so like! let me see it!" with a sudden movement.

"No!" cried Maggie, now almost crying with fright, and clutching her treasure.

By this time some of the people around had noticed the scene, and the hotel-keeper came up.

"What is it, Mr. Bartlett?"

The gentleman tried to calm himself, seeing that they had become the centre of a curious crowd, and then replied:—

"Why, I find on this child the double of a locket I gave my sister years ago, a sister who has disappeared and whom I have been seeking for years; I wanted to examine it—but I seem to have frightened her; will you, if you know her, ask her to let me look at it? If it is the one I seek, it should open by a secret spring, and have a boy's face inside. If it should help me to find my long-lost sister!" He paused, much moved.

Mr. Wild, the hotel-keeper, calmed Maggie, and asked her to let the gentleman examine it.

As he took it in his hand, he murmured, "The very same! here is a mark I well remember. Now if I can open it!" He held it a moment when suddenly it sprang open, to Maggie's amazement, and there—sure enough—was a faded, old-fashioned daguerreotype of a boy's face.

"It is the very one!" he exclaimed in excitement. "Now where is this Miss—What did you say her name was? Where could she have got it?"

"She told me," said Maggie, trembling, "that her brother gave it to her."

"So I did," said the man eagerly; "but the name! can she have changed her name?"

"It is Miss Hester Bartlett," said one of the bystanders, "and she is—a little—deformed, and lives alone in the edge of the village."

The man turned so white he seemed about to faint as he said: "It is she! Friends"—turning to the much interested crowd, "I have sought her for years. I was in the army and reported killed in battle, and when I went home to take care of my unfortunate sister, she had disappeared, and I have never till now found a clue to her. Take me to her instantly!" turning to Maggie, who was now really crying for joy to think of Miss Hester's happiness.

But the people urged that such a shock, when she supposed him dead, might be very dangerous, and at last he was persuaded to let some one who knew her break the joyful news to her.

Maggie went back to the cottage the happiest girl in the village, and the next morning the news was safely broken to Miss Hester, who in a short half hour found herself crying on her brother's shoulder—the richest and the happiest woman in all the world, as she said through her tears.

From that day a new life began for Maggie, for neither brother nor sister would hear of parting from her, who had been the means of their finding each other. A larger house was built, and Miss Hester persuaded to mingle a little with her neighbors, while Maggie took her place among the young people on equal terms with all.

"That was splendid!" said Kristy, with shining eyes, as Mrs. Wilson ended her story. "Is it true? Did it really happen?"

"Yes, it is true; I know Maggie myself,—met her last summer, when I went to B——."

"I should like to know her," said Kristy. "Can't you tell another, Mrs. Wilson?"

"Kristy," said her mother, reprovingly, "it's bad enough for you to tease me for stories without making victims of others."

"Oh, I like to tell stories," said Mrs. Wilson, laughing, "and I think I have time to tell Kristy about the naughtiest day of my life."

"Oh, do!" cried Kristy eagerly.

"Did you ever notice in my sitting-room a little dog preserved in a glass case?"

"Yes, I have," said Kristy, "and I have always wondered about it."

"Well; I'll tell you why I preserve it so carefully. That little dog saved my life, I believe, and if not my life, he certainly saved my reason."

"Oh, how was that, Mrs. Wilson?" said Kristy earnestly.



CHAPTER XI

HOW A DOG SAVED MY LIFE

I was twelve years old when I had the most dreadful experience of my life—an experience that I am sure would have ended in my death or insanity if it had not been for the love of my little dog Tony.

It was all my own fault, too—my own naughtiness. But let me begin at the beginning. My father and mother were going away from home on a short visit to my grandmother. They had arranged to have me stay at my Uncle Will's and had given Molly, the maid, leave to spend the time at her own home; so the house was to be shut up and left alone.

Now I had an intimate friend, a schoolmate, of whom my mother did not approve, for family reasons, which I understood when I was older, and she never liked to have me be much with her. When Maud—for that was her name—found out that I was to be at my uncle's a few days, she at once asked me to stay with her instead. She offered all sorts of inducements. She was going to have a party—a dance it was—and my parents did not approve of dancing. In fact, she drew such an enticing picture of the good times we would have that I was tempted to do what I had never done in my life—deceive my own mother.

I did not dare ask her to let me go to Maud's, for I knew she would not consent, and if she positively forbade me, I think I should not have ventured to disobey, but if I did not ask her and she did not forbid, that—I thought—would not be so very bad. Fortifying myself by these thoughts, I decided to accept Maud's invitation secretly.

I made up my mind not to go to Uncle Will's at all, for I did not want them to know where I was going. I knew my father or mother would lock the house and leave the key at Uncle Will's, and I wanted to get my best clothes to go to Maud's party.

After some thought, and at Maud's suggestion, I planned to hide myself in the house till all had left it, then get the things I wanted, and slip out of a window that was not fastened.

I knew my mother would go all over the house before she left it, and the only place I could think of to hide was in the cellar. So with these naughty thoughts in my head, I took occasion, a short time before they were to start, to slip into the cellar and hide behind some barrels. I must say that I had always a foolish fear of the cellar, and nothing but my great desire to go to Maud's would have induced me to spend even a few minutes in it.

I heard my father drive up to the door and my mother walking about seeing that everything was shut and locked, but I did not hear that as she passed the cellar door she slipped the bolt into place.

When they were out of the house, and I heard them drive away, I came out of my hiding place, exulting in the thought that now I was free to do as I liked. I would hurry up to my room, put my best dress and ribbons and things into a traveling bag, and hurry down to Maud's. I felt my way to the stairs, for it was late afternoon and the cellar—never very light in the brightest noon—was at that hour quite dark, and I went up those stairs the happiest, lightest-hearted girl in the world. Alas! it was my last happy moment for months.

I fumbled about for the latch, lifted it, and pushed the door. It did not open—and the truth flashed upon me. It was locked! I was a prisoner! The full horror of my position burst upon me. No one knew I was there. No one would seek me. No one could hear me, for the house was at some distance from others. I was a prisoner in a dark cellar—it was almost night—my parents would be gone three days!

I went into a frenzy, I shrieked and called, I pounded the door till my hands were bleeding, though all the time I knew no one could hear me.

I can scarcely remember what I did. I was, I believe, actually insane for a while.

Night came on; I heard—or I thought I heard—rats, and I remembered some of the terrible things I had read of these animals. I shouted again, and again beat the door. I cannot tell the horror and agony of those hours. I felt myself going mad.

I was aroused at last, after hours,—it seemed to me,—by the whining and crying of my dog, my pet, who was my constant companion. He was a clever little fellow and, I used to think, knew as much as some folks. He was now at the small, grated window of the cellar, crying and scratching at the earth, evidently trying to dig his way in to me.

His presence—even outside—comforted me, and a thought came to me. He had been taught to go to Uncle Will and others of the family, and perhaps he might be able to bring help. I called to him, and he responded joyfully. Then I gave him his order.

"Call Uncle Will!"

The faithful fellow did not want to leave me; he whined and cried, but I repeated the order in as stern a voice as I could manage.

"Call Uncle Will!" I ordered again and again, and at last he ran off.

Then I took hope and began to listen. If Uncle Will came near, I meant to call and scream to attract his attention.

But hours passed; no one came—not even my dear Tony—and I heard noises and went mad again. I was getting exhausted, sitting uncomfortably on the top step of the stairs, and suffering such violent emotion.

Meanwhile there was excitement at Uncle Will's over the strange conduct of the dog. He barked, and howled, and cried at the door, till Uncle Will got out of bed to quiet him. But he would not be quiet, nor go into the house for all the coaxing. He insisted on barking, running towards the gate, and then back in the most frantic way.

At last, after he had kept the family awake all night, when daylight began to dawn, Uncle Will decided to follow him to see if he could find what was the matter, though he was sure the poor fellow was raving mad.

The dog led him at once to the cellar window, where he dug at the earth, and whined and cried harder than ever. At first I did not hear him,—I think I had become unconscious,—but at last I did rouse myself enough to utter a scream which Uncle Will heard. He did not recognize my voice,—indeed he said afterwards that it sounded like nothing human,—but he resolved at any rate to see what it was.

He went to the kitchen door to unlock it, but the dog went wilder than ever, seeming to think I was behind that window. However, Uncle Will came in, and on his unlocking the cellar door, I fell on the floor in a heap, as if dead.

Uncle Will was awfully frightened; he took me up in his arms—big as I was—and ran with me back to his house, which was not far away.

It was hours before I was fully myself, months before I recovered from the illness caused by the cold I had taken, and years before I got back my courage and could bear to be alone—especially at night, when all the horrors of that time would come up before me as vividly as on that dreadful night.

* * * * *

"How dreadful!" said Kristy in a low tone, as Mrs. Wilson paused.

"I needn't point the moral to you, Kristy," Mrs. Wilson said, "but I assure you I learned my lesson well; and that's why I keep my dear little dog's body in a glass case. I cherished him beyond everything as long as he lived, and couldn't bear to give him up when he died at a good old age.

"Now," said Mrs. Wilson, "I must really go. It has stopped raining, Kristy, and I have paid mamma's debt."

"No, indeed!" cried Kristy. "You have told me lovely stories, and mamma owes me two to pay for them!"

"That's a curious way of calculating," said Mrs. Wilson, laughing; "do you expect to be paid twice for everything?"

"Yes; when it's stories," said Kristy.

"Kristy'll soon have to write stories for herself, I think," said her mother, smiling, "when she has exhausted the stock of all her friends."

Kristy blushed, but did not confess that that was her pet ambition.

"Now, mamma," said Kristy that evening after supper was over, "some more rainy day stories, please!"

"Will you have them all at once?" asked mamma, taking up some fancy knitting she kept for evenings, "or one at a time?"

"One at a time, please," answered Kristy.

"Well; get your work. How much did you do this afternoon?"

Kristy looked guilty. "You know I just can't remember to knit when I'm listening to a story. I—I—believe I did not knit once across."

Her mother laughed. "The poor Barton baby'll go cold, I'm afraid, if he waits for his carriage robe till you finish it. How would you like to knit him a pair of stockings? Shall I set them up and give you a daily stint?"

"Ugh!" said Kristy. "Please don't talk of anything so dreadful! You told me yourself how you hated it."

"It's a very good plan, nevertheless," said Mrs. Crawford. "Perhaps it would have been wiser not to tell you about that."

"Now, mamma!" said Kristy reproachfully.

"I think," mamma went on, "that I shall have to make up for that story of a girl who didn't like to work,—at least that kind of work,"—she corrected herself, "by telling you about a girl who worked enough for two."

"Oh, oh!" cried Kristy, "I'm afraid that'll not be very interesting."

"Well, you shall see," said mamma, "for I'm going to tell you how she got up a whole Christmas tree alone, and made everything on it herself."

"Oh!" said Kristy relieved, "that'll be good, I know; begin."

"Well, I'll begin where the story begins, as I have heard May tell it, with a talk between her sister and herself. One morning a little before Christmas the two girls got to talking about that happy time and the way it is celebrated, and May listened eagerly to Lottie's description of a tree she had at her aunt's the year before."



CHAPTER XII

LOTTIE'S CHRISTMAS TREE

"There's no use wishing for anything away out here in the woods," said Lottie fretfully, rocking violently back and forth by the side of the bed.

"No, of course we couldn't have one, but I should like to see a Christmas tree before I die. It must be splendid!"

And poor, sick May turned wearily on her pillow.

"You're not going to die, May," said Lottie impatiently, "and I hope you'll see lots of Christmas trees—if you don't this year. It's your turn to go to Aunt Laura's next."

May sighed.

"I'm too tired, Lottie. I never shall go."

"Of course you're tired," said Lottie in the same fretful tone; "nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read—just lying on your back, week after week, in this old log house. It's enough to make anybody sick. I s'pose it's awful wicked, but I think it's just too bad that we two girls have to live in this mean old shanty, with nobody but stupid old Nancy!"

"Oh, Lottie," said the sick girl anxiously, "don't forget father, and what a comfort we are to him."

"You are, you mean," interrupted Lottie.

"No, I mean you. I'm an expense and care to him; but what could he do without you? And remember," she went on softly, "how he hated to bring us to this lonely little place, and wanted to put us in school, and leave us, but we begged him"—

"Yes, I remember," said Lottie regretfully, "and I am wicked as I can be to talk so; but thinking about Aunt Laura's tree, it did seem too bad you couldn't have one, too. You have so few pleasures."

"Oh, I have lots of pleasures!" cried May eagerly. "I love to lie here and look out into the woods,—the dear, sweet, quiet woods,—and remember the nice times we used to have before I was sick; and I like"—

"You like some dinner by this time, I guess," said Nancy, coming in with her dinner nicely served on a tray.

Lottie got up, went into the next room, threw an old shawl over her head, and stepped out of the side door into the woods, for the house had not been built long, and all the clearing was on the other side.

Though it was winter, it was not very cold, and the woods were almost as attractive as in summer.

Walking a few rods, Lottie sat down on her favorite seat, a fallen tree trunk covered with moss.

"I declare, it's too bad!" she began to herself. "I believe May is dying because it's so stupid here. I could 'most die myself. I wonder if I couldn't do something to amuse her. Couldn't I buy something, or make something," she went on, slowly turning over in her mind all her resources. "Let me see,—I have two dollars left. I wish I could buy her a set of chessmen! She and father play so much. Wait! wait!" she cried excitedly, jumping up and dancing around; "I have it! I can make her a set like Kate Selden's, or something like it, I know! Oh, dear! won't that be splendid! How delighted she will be! But where'll I get the figures?"

She sat down again more soberly, and fell into a brown study.

"My two dollars will buy enough china dolls, I guess, and I'll get Aunt Laura to send them to me by mail."

This was a bright thought, and the more she thought of it, the greater grew her plan. She remembered several things she could make, and before she went into the house, she even ventured to dream of a tree.

That night a mysterious letter was written, the two dollars slipped in, sealed, and directed, ready to give to the postman, an old man who passed every day with mail for the village.

Never did ten days seem so long to Lottie as that particular ten days which passed before she got her answer. Every day, at the postman's hour, she ran up to the road and waited for him, all the time planning the wonderful things she would do. At last, one day, the old man stopped his horse, fumbled in his saddlebags, and brought out a package directed to her.

She seized it, and ran off to open her treasure. What did the package contain? Nothing but twenty-eight china dolls, some silver and gilt paper, and some bits of bright silk.

"Auntie has got everything!" she exclaimed joyfully; "and now I can go right to work."

Now the log house had but four rooms,—the living-room, where they ate, and where old Nancy cooked at a big cave of a fireplace, in which logs were burning from fall to spring; the girls' room, where May lay, which was also warmed by a big fireplace; father's room, and a room in the attic for Nancy.

Lottie could not work in the cold, nor in May's room, so she established herself in a warm corner of the living-room, far enough from Nancy's dull eyes, and near a window. Day after day she worked, making excuses to May for leaving her so much alone, and hiding her work before her father came in at night.

I will tell you how she made the set of chessmen. First she hunted up a smooth, thin board, from which she cut, with her father's saw, a square piece about twenty inches square. The middle of this board she laid out in blocks with a pencil and ruler, careful to make them exactly perfect. The blocks were two inches square and there were eight each way; in fact, it was a copy of the chessboard her father had made.

These squares she covered with gilt and silver paper alternately, covering the joinings with strips of very narrow gilt bordering. The edge of the board she covered with a strip of drab-colored cloth she found in the piece-trunk.

The board being finished,—and it was really very pretty,—she had next to make the chessmen. For these she used the china dolls, the tallest of which was three inches high. Half of the dolls were white and the other half black; the white to wear blue and white, the black ones scarlet and drab.

The dressing was a work of art, for she wished to make them look like the characters they represented. She looked through the picture-books in the house to see how kings and queens and knights and bishops were dressed. Pictures of kings and queens she found in a geography, knights in a volume of Shakespeare, and a bishop in an odd number of an old magazine.

Then she went to work. The pawns were dressed as pages, the kings and queens in flowing robes, with crowns of gilt or silver paper, glued on, the knights in coats of mail,—strips of silver paper laid over one another like the shingles on a roof,—the bishops in long gowns, with mitre on the head,—all in the two colors of their respective sides. The four castles were made of pieces of gray sandpaper, glued into cylinder shape, with battlement-shaped strips around the top; when glued on their standards, they looked like little stone castles.

When they were all dressed,—and it took many days and much contriving,—Lottie found that few of them would stand up, and those which possessed the accomplishment were very tottlish, and fell down at the slightest provocation.

That would never do, so she set her wits to work to provide standards.

She took an old broom handle, and sawed it into thin slices.

When she had thirty-two of these slices, she covered them neatly with pieces of old black broadcloth, glued on, over top, edge, and all. Then she dipped the feet of each china personage into the hot, stiff glue, and held it in place till the glue set.

They would stick nicely, and stand up as straight as any chessmen.

Then she drew the long robes into folds, just touched with glue, and festooned to the standard so as not to get out of place.

When the whole set was done, Lottie was delighted; and, indeed, they were extremely pretty.

Every night, when May and her father would get out the old set, made of button moulds, with the name printed on with ink, Lottie would think what a surprise there would be.

But she was not done with plans.

May had a picture, a delicate pencil-sketch of her mother, the only likeness they had. It was the sick girl's treasure. Too careful of it to allow it to hang on the wall and get soiled, she kept it in an old book under her pillow, and to take it out and look at it every day was her delight. Now Lottie planned to make a frame for this treasure.

On pretense of looking at it, she took its dimensions, and then went to work. Cutting a piece of cardboard of the right size, she proceeded to cover it with little bunches of grasses she had dried in the summer, standing up in vases so that they drooped gracefully. At the top, where the stems of the grasses met, she placed a bunch of bitter-sweet berries, the brilliant red and orange just the needed bit of color to perfect the whole.

It was laid away in a chest with the chessmen, ready to receive the picture.

And now she began to plan for the adornment of the tree.

Candles were the greatest anxiety, but with the help of Nancy, she made a few large ones into twenty as neat and pretty little "dips" as you ever saw.

Walnuts she ornamented with gilt bands and loops to be hung by; apples, the reddest and whitest, were similarly prepared; tiny cornucopias, made of white letter paper trimmed with bits of gilt, filled with popped corn and meats of butternuts nicely picked out; dainty baskets made of old match-boxes, covered with gay paper, and with festooned handles; gorgeous pink and white roses of paper; tiny cakes of maple sugar, delicious sticks and twists of molasses candy; dainty drop cakes and kisses smuggled into the oven on baking-day,—all were secreted in the wonderful chest in the attic.

At last came the day before Christmas, and Lottie took the axe and went into the woods, for this woods-girl could not only bake cakes, dress dolls, and saw broomsticks, but she could even chop down a tree, if it was small.

She found a beautiful spruce tree, which had evidently been growing all these years on purpose for a Christmas tree, so straight it stood, and so wide and strong were its branches.

Cutting it down, and dragging it home over the snow, Lottie presented herself at the kitchen door, to the astonished eyes of Nancy.

"Now, Nancy, don't you say a word to May. I'm going to surprise her."

"'Deed 'n I should think you'd surprise her, could she see you dragging that big log into the house!"

"Well, you help me in with it, for I don't want to break its branches."

"All on my clean floor!" cried Nancy, in dismay.

"Yes, quick!" said Lottie; "it won't muss, you'll see."

Nancy helped her, and the tree yielded to fate and four strong arms, and went in.

It did look big, and when Lottie stood it up in a tub, it nearly touched the wall. Around the trunk of the tree, to steady it, she packed sticks of wood till it stood firm. Then she covered the whole, tub, wood, and floor around, with great sheets of green moss, which she had pulled out from under the snow the day before.

She got the tree in early in the morning, and every moment she could steal from May through the day she spent in filling it, hanging on her treasures, fastening her candles by sticking large pins up through the small branches, and standing the candles on them.

The chessboard stood prominently on the moss at the foot of the tree, and the frame, with its picture, hung from one branch.

When her father came home, he found supper served, as a Christmas eve treat, Lottie said, in May's room, and adroitly he was kept out of the mysterious room.

When he was finishing his last cup of tea, and was talking with May, Lottie slipped out, lighted a long taper, and in five minutes had the tree all ablaze with light.

"Father," she said, quietly opening the door, "will you bring May out to her Christmas eve?"

"What!" said father.

But mechanically he took in his arms the light form of his daughter, and followed Lottie. At the door he stood transfixed, and May could not speak or breathe for wonder.

That one moment paid Lottie for all her hard work, but Nancy's "Do tell!" as she peeped over their shoulders and saw the illuminated tree, broke the spell.

Father broke out with tears in his eyes, "Why, Lottie!" and May cried ecstatically: "How wonderful! how lovely! is it a dream? is it fairies?"

"No, May," Lottie whispered, coming up softly behind her, "it's only a Christmas tree, and it's yours!"

"Mine! and you made it?" exclaimed May, understanding at once Lottie's intense occupation of the last month.

"Who helped you, my daughter?"

"No one, father," said Lottie.

"Well, it's wonderful, really wonderful. How could you do it all alone? I can't understand it! What a little, smothered volcano you must have been all these weeks!"

"I could hardly keep from telling," said Lottie, with happy eyes.

But now May asked to be carried nearer, and each treasure was examined. The ingenious chessmen were praised, and the frame brought a shower of happy tears from May.

Then there was a surprise for father, for Lottie had found time to make him a nice, warm muffler, and May had knit him a pair of mittens, which she now brought out. And Nancy was not forgotten, for Lottie had made her an apron, and May had made her a tatting collar. Neither was Lottie neglected, for May had netted her a beautiful new net.

And father now drew out of his pocket a letter which he had received from Aunt Laura that morning, on opening which, two new ten-dollar bills were found, presents from Aunt Laura to the girls, "to buy some keepsake with," the letter said.

"And I was so cross, thinking I should not have any Christmas," said May repentantly.

"And I was so sad, thinking how different would have been my daughters' Christmas if their dear mother had been with us," said father softly.

"And you, Lottie—like a dear, old darling as you are," said May, giving her a spasmodic hug, "were all the time working away with all your might that I might have the most splendid Christmas tree! I don't believe Aunt Laura's is half so pretty!"

* * * * *

"It must be fun to dress up a tree yourself," said Kristy, when the story was ended.

"And still more," said her mother, "to get it up, as Lottie did, out of almost nothing. It's easy enough to go out and buy enough to cover a tree, but it's a very different affair to make the presents one's self.

"Another unusual Christmas celebration that I have heard about was even more strange than Lottie's, though several people took part in getting it up. It took place in a baggage-car," went on Mrs. Crawford.

"In a baggage-car?" said Kristy.

"Yes; attached to a train that was snowed up in Minnesota one winter. It was the time that Ethel Jervis was ill,—you remember,—and her mother took her to Minnesota for her health."

"She took Harry, too, didn't she?" asked Kristy.

"Yes; she couldn't leave him very well, so he was with them."

"Tell me about it!" said Kristy.



CHAPTER XIII

CHRISTMAS IN A BAGGAGE-CAR

Mrs. Jervis and her two children, Ethel and Harry, were on their way to spend Christmas with the grandmother, who lived in a small town in Minnesota, three or four hours' journey from Minneapolis, where they were spending the winter. There had been a good deal of snow, but they did not think much about it, for they were not used to Minnesota snowstorms.

It was getting late in the afternoon, and they were tired and anxious to reach B——before night, when the train—after a good deal of puffing, and backing, and jerking forward and back—stopped short.

Several of the men went out to see what was the matter. Soon they began to come back, and one, whose seat was next to Mrs. Jervis, said, as he took his seat, "It doesn't look much like getting to B—— to-night."

"What is the trouble?" asked Mrs. Jervis.

"Tremendous drifts in the cut," answered Mr. Camp. "Snow falling faster than ever, and wind piling it up faster than a thousand men could shovel it out. This cut is a regular snow-trap."

"Can't the engine plow through?" asked Mrs. Jervis anxiously.

"That's what has been tried," said the man; "but the snow is higher than the smokestack, and packed so tight it's almost solid. We may be here a week, for all I see, unless the storm holds up and we get help."

"Oh, mother!" wailed Ethel, "shan't we get to grandmother's for Christmas?"

"I hope so, Ethel!" said Mrs. Jervis soothingly. "It's three days to Christmas, you know, and a good deal may happen in three days. Couldn't we go back?" she asked her neighbor. "If we could get back to Minneapolis it would be better than staying here," and she glanced anxiously at her daughter, whose wide, staring eyes were fixed on Mr. Camp, as if he held her fate in his hands.

"They tried a while ago, you remember," he said; "but the cut we passed through a mile back is now as bad as this. The fact is, we are between two cuts, and for all I see are prisoners here till we get help from outside."

Mrs. Jervis heard this with dismay, and Ethel with despair. She buried her face in her mother's lap, and shook all over with the violence of her sobs.

Mrs. Jervis was distressed, for her daughter was just recovering from a serious illness, and she feared the consequences of such violent emotion. Her mind worked quickly; if she could only get Ethel interested in something,—but what could she do shut up in a car? She spoke again to her neighbor.

"Didn't you say there were some travelers in the next car not so comfortable as we are?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered; "a mother and three children, one a baby, going to Dalton, where the father has just got work. They look poor, and are not very warmly clad. The conductor says he can't keep two cars warm; fuel is getting scarce; and he's going to bring them in here."

"Do you hear that, Ethel?" said her mother anxiously; "there's a baby coming into our car."

Ethel was usually very fond of babies, but now she could think of nothing but her disappointment, and only an impatient jerk of her shoulders showed that she heard.

At this moment the door opened, and the conductor appeared, followed by the few passengers from the other car, among them the shivering family with the baby. The mother looked pale and tired, and sank into the first seat.

Mrs. Jervis rose, obliging Ethel to sit up, and went toward the weary woman.

"Let me take the baby a while," she said pleasantly; "you look tired out."

Tears came into the eyes of the poor mother.

"Oh, thank you," she said; "the baby is fretting for her milk; she won't eat anything I can get for her."

"Of course she won't," said Mrs. Jervis, as she lifted the baby, who, though poorly dressed, was clean and sweet; "sensible baby! we must try to get milk for her!" She turned to the conductor.

"Isn't there a farmhouse somewhere about here where some benevolent gentleman might get milk for a suffering baby?" and she looked with a smile at the passenger who had been giving the unwelcome news.

"No," said the conductor, "I think not any near enough to be reached in this storm; but I have an idea that there's a case of condensed milk in the baggage-car; I'll see," and he hurried out.

"That's a providential baggage-car," said Mrs. Jervis. "How much we might have suffered but for its fortunate stores!"

"Yes," replied her neighbor gravely; "a fast of a week wouldn't be very comfortable."

"And jack rabbits are tiptop!" burst in Harry Jervis. His mother smiled.

"I'm glad you like them, Harry; I should like them better bounding away over the prairies on their own long legs than served up half cooked, on a newspaper for plates,—to be eaten with fingers, too," she added.

"Fingers were made before forks!" said Harry triumphantly, repeating an old saying which had been quoted quite often in that car of late.

"Your fingers were not, Harry!" said Mrs. Jervis, laughing. "However, we have cause to be thankful, even for jack rabbits eaten with our fingers."

At this moment entered a brakeman with a can of condensed milk. "The conductor sent this to you, ma'am," he said.

"But it isn't open!" said Mrs. Jervis in dismay; "and I didn't think to bring a can-opener. If I had only known of this picnic-party, I might have provided myself."

"I'll open it," said her neighbor, taking out a pocket knife; "I've opened many a can in my travels on the plains."

"Don't take off the top," said Mrs. Jervis. "Make two holes in the cover." He looked up in surprise. She went on: "One to let out the milk, and the other to let in the air so that it can get out."

"Well, if that isn't an idea!" said the man, a broad grin spreading over his face. "It takes a woman to think of that contrivance!"

"You see," said Mrs. Jervis, "that keeps the milk in the can clean, and it pours out as well as if the whole top was off."

"Sure!" said the man; "I'll never forget that little trick; thank you, ma'am!"

Mrs. Jervis smiled. "You're quite welcome," she said, as she proceeded to dilute the milk with water from the cooler, and to warm the mixture on the stove, using her own silver traveling-cup for the purpose.

While she was doing this, she had put the baby on Ethel's lap, saying quietly, "You hold her a minute till I get the milk ready."

Ethel half grudgingly took the feebly wailing baby; but when the milk was warmed and the hungry little creature quietly fell asleep in her arms, she showed no desire to give her up. Mrs. Jervis, having procured a pillow from the porter,—for this was a sleeping-car,—laid the sleeping infant on the seat opposite her own.

Meanwhile, the idea she had been all this time seeking—the plan for giving Ethel something to think of besides herself—had come to her, and she now suggested it to her daughter, who had stopped crying, though she still looked very unhappy.

"Ethel," she said, "did you notice those poor children back there?"

"No," said Ethel indifferently.

"Well," said her mother, "I wish you'd go and tell the mother that the baby is sleeping comfortably, and I'll look after her."

Ethel was accustomed to mind, and though she looked as if she didn't fancy the errand, she rose and slowly walked through the car to the back seats where the strangers were seated, delivered her message, and returned.

"They don't look very comfortable, do they?" said Mrs. Jervis.

"No, indeed!" said Ethel with some interest; "that girl had a little, old shawl pinned on, and looked half frozen at that."

"I don't suppose they have ever been really comfortable," went on Mrs. Jervis. "I should like to fix them all up warm and nice for once in their lives."

Ethel did not reply, but she was thinking.

"I wonder if they were going anywhere for Christmas," she said slowly.

"They look as if they did not know what Christmas is," answered her mother. "I don't believe they ever had one."

"It would be fun to fix up a tree for them," said Ethel, who had enjoyed helping to arrange a Christmas celebration the preceding year in an orphan asylum; "but of course no one can do anything shut up in this old car!"

"I'm not so sure about that," said Mrs. Jervis; "a good deal can be done by willing hands."

"I don't see what!" said Ethel.

"Well," said her mother, "you could at least make the girl a rag-doll like those you made for the orphans last winter."

"What could I make it of?" asked Ethel somewhat scornfully.

"I have an idea," said Mrs. Jervis. "I think I can get something from the porter."

Like most persons who set out with determination, Mrs. Jervis overcame all obstacles. With the consent of the conductor, who assumed the responsibility for the Company, she bought of the porter a clean sheet, and a towel with a gay border, and returned to her seat. Out of her traveling-bag she took sewing implements, and in a short time Ethel was busily engaged in fashioning a rag-doll. She rolled up a long strip of the clean cotton for the doll's body, sewing it tightly in place, and made a similar but much smaller roll for the arms, which she sewed on to the body in proper position. She marked the features of the face with a black lead pencil, and then dressed it in a strip of the towel, leaving the red border as a trimming around the hem of the dress, and a narrow strip of the same gay border for a sash, which was tied in a fine bow at the back. On the head, to conceal the raw edges of the cotton, she made a tiny hood of another piece of the red border, and though you might not think it, it was really a very presentable doll.

Meanwhile the idea had spread among the passengers, and other hands were busy with the same purpose. One elderly lady, who had been occupying her time knitting with red wool a long, narrow strip intended to make a stripe in a large afghan, deliberately raveled out the whole, and, bringing out of her bag a pair of fine needles, set up some mittens for the cold-looking red hands of the boy.

Another lady passenger produced a small shoulder shawl, which she proceeded to make—with the help of Mrs. Jervis's needles and thread—into a warm hood for the little girl. Another lady made of an extra wrap she carried an ample cloak for the baby, and Mrs. Jervis resolved to give the thinly dressed mother a large cape she had brought in case they should ride the last two miles of their journey in an open sleigh in a snowstorm.

The whole carload, with nothing to occupy them, soon caught the enthusiasm; and before the day was over, nearly every one was doing what could be done with such limited means to make a pleasant Christmas for the little family occupying so quietly the back section in the car, and feeling so out of place among the well-to-do passengers.

Not only were articles for their comfort made, but toys for the children. Many a man, in the intervals of shoveling snow, at which each man took his turn, called up the resources of boyhood, and whittled precious things out of wood; a whistle and a toy sled for the boy; a cradle made of a cigar box, with rockers nailed on with pins, for the girl, and fitted with bedding from her mother's sheet by Ethel, with a piece of the shoulder shawl for coverlid.

Even Harry wanted to help, and begged his mother for an empty spool, out of which he could make a real top which would spin. Mrs. Jervis had no empty spool, but she took the largest one she had, wound off the thread on a card, and gave it to him, and he whittled out a beautiful top.

All these things could be done in the same car with the family, for they were very shy, and kept strictly to the last compartment, where the conductor had placed them.

As Christmas day drew near, the question of a tree began to be considered, for Ethel could not entertain the idea of Christmas without one. She consulted the porter, who entered into the spirit of the thing warmly, and as he had noticed some trees not far back, near the track, he managed to cut off a large branch from one. Shaking it free from the snow, he set it up in a box, under Ethel's directions, making it stand steadily upright with chunks of coal packed in the box around it, and it really looked something like a tree, though it was entirely bare of leaves, for it was not an evergreen.

The baggage-car was decided upon for the celebration, and all day before Christmas Ethel and Harry, as well as most of the passengers by turns, were very busy there. Ethel covered the box of coal with the remains of the sheet; candles for the tree, with all their ingenuity, they were unable to manage, but a fine effect was produced by a brilliant red lantern, which a brakeman lent for the occasion, placed in among the branches.

All the gifts—and they were surprisingly numerous—were hung about the tree, and the bare spaces filled up with paper ladders and rings of dancing dolls and long curling tassels and fringes, all of which Ethel cut with the scissors out of newspapers. These last decorations were added with locked doors, only the porter being allowed to see them.

It was really a very effective show, though so odd, and after the passengers had enjoyed their evening meal of jack rabbits roasted before the fire, with dry crackers for bread, and water to drink, they were all invited by the smiling colored porter to proceed to the baggage-car.

The Grey family, for whom all this had been done, were gallantly escorted by the porter himself, who even carried the baby, now bright and smiling on its diet of condensed milk.

The baggage-car presented a gay appearance, brilliantly lighted by many brakeman's lanterns. Trunks were stowed away in one end, except those needed for seats, and in a few moments the women and children were seated, while all the men of the train stood around behind them, even to the weary-looking engineer who had been working so hard these two days and nights for their release.

The surprise and delight of the Grey children knew no bounds; and when they found that all these treasures were for them, their ecstasies were beyond control; they laughed and shouted almost like other children, as they had never in their lives done before.

As for the mother, she was simply overcome; tears of happiness ran down her face, and as each gift was placed in her lap, she could only grasp the hand of the giver,—she could not speak.

And what of Ethel! No one would have known her for the unhappy-faced maiden who had so lamented their plight. All this time she had been the moving spirit in the whole matter. She had worked hard herself, and inspired others to work, too. She was rosy and happy on this evening, her eyes bright and shining; and when her mother placed in her hand her own Christmas gift, which she had been secretly carrying to grace the tree at Grandma's, her happiness overflowed, and she exclaimed:—

"Why! I almost forgot the party to-night at Grandma's!"

At the close of the evening, as the party were about to return to their car, the conductor rapped for silence, and announced—as the best gift of the evening—that help had come from outside and cut through the drifts, so that before morning they would be able to take up their journey.

It was a very happy-faced Ethel who, the next morning, jumped out of the sleigh which had brought them up from the station, and ran to kiss her grandmother and aunts and cousins, brought together from great distances for the happy Christmas time. And after all, she didn't miss the tree, either, for, although Christmas had passed, all the party begged to defer the tree till the Jervis family arrived; and there it stood at that moment, all ready for lighting.

Nothing of this was told to the Jervis children, however, till after supper was over, when Grandmother invited the whole company to go into the room where it stood, lighted from the top twig to the pedestal it stood on, and hung full of beautiful gifts.

* * * * *

"That's a nice story," said Kristy; "it was lovely of them to save the tree for Ethel. It isn't bedtime yet," she went on suggestively, as her mother busied herself with her work.

"No; it isn't bedtime; but you must have had enough stories for one day, Kristy."

"No, indeed! I never have enough!" said Kristy warmly.

"Well, here's another, then, and it's true, too." And Mrs. Crawford began.



CHAPTER XIV

HOW A BEAR CAME TO SCHOOL

One warm spring morning, near the town of A——, away off in the edge of the deep woods, a bear awoke from his long winter sleep, came out of his den under the roots of a great fallen tree, stretched his half-asleep limbs, opened wide his great mouth in a long, long yawn, and then all at once found that he was ravenously hungry; and no wonder! for he hadn't had a mouthful to eat since he went to sleep for the winter, months before.

As soon as he was wide awake, and his legs began to feel natural, he started out to find something to eat. There were no berries in the woods yet, no green things that he liked to eat, and, in fact, there was a very poor prospect for breakfast.

Long he wandered about in the woods, finding nothing, and getting more hungry every minute; and at last he started for the few scattering houses of the village, where he had sometimes found food when it was scarce in the woods.

He didn't like to go near the houses of men, for he generally got hurt when he did so; but he was by this time so very hungry that he almost forgot that all men were his enemies.

Shuffling quietly along on his soft-padded feet, he came to a little house standing all by itself in the edge of the woods. All was quiet about it, except a curious sort of humming noise, which may have reminded him of bees and honey that he liked so well.

Nearer and nearer he came, snuffing the breeze as he came, till he reached the open door of the little house. Into this he thrust his great head, and surely now he smelled something to eat.

It was a schoolhouse, though he didn't know it.

At this moment a little girl looked up from her book, and a wild scream rent the air.

"There's a bear coming in!" she cried.

Instantly all was confusion; books were dropped, school was forgotten, screams and shouts filled the air, while the teacher—a stranger in that wild country—turned white.

Some of the bigger boys ran towards the door, shouting and waving their arms to frighten the great beast away, but he had smelled the dinner baskets, ranged in the passageway, and he was far too hungry to mind the shouting of boys. The next moment he was fairly in the passage, and there was nothing to prevent his coming into the schoolroom.

Now there is a very wrong impression abroad about bears. Most people—especially children—think that a bear is always roaming around seeking some one to devour; while the truth is that, unless madly hungry or badly treated, a bear will always avoid a human being. In fact, hunters call them cowardly, though a more truthful word would be peaceable. In that schoolroom, however, a bear was the greatest terror in the world.

There was nothing in the way of a door to keep him out of the room, but there was a great attraction for him in the doughnuts and pieces of pie and cake and apples and other good things he smelled in the dinner baskets, and he set at once to turning over the contents, and eating whatever pleased his fancy.

After her momentary faintness, Miss Brown—the young teacher—roused herself to see what could be done to protect her charges. There was no door between the room and the passage, though there was a suitable opening for one. Glancing around the room, she saw but one thing to do,—to barricade that opening.

Trying to quiet the screams and tears of the children huddled around her, she spoke hurriedly to the biggest boys.

"Boys, we must barricade the doorway while he is busy with the baskets. Bring up the benches as quick as you can!"

All fell to work, and soon benches were piled from the floor to the top of the doorway; but they were so unsteady that one could see that one good push of the big fellow would throw them all down.

"More!" said Miss Brown; "we must brace these up."

So other benches were placed against them in a way to brace them, and when all in the room were used, a tolerably steady wall was made, though of course there were plenty of openings between the benches through which they could see and be seen.

"If he tries to push them down," said Miss Brown with white lips, "we must all throw ourselves against these braces to keep them firm. I think we can keep him till help comes."

The question of help was a serious one. The schoolhouse was placed on the edge of a bluff where the ground dropped suddenly many feet, and strangely enough, all the windows were on that side, so that no one could climb out of a window, and, what was worse, those inside could not attract attention if any one should pass. The windows looked only into the deep woods.

All this became plain to Miss Brown, as she looked around to see what were their chances of escape. The only hope was that the bear would get enough to eat and go out of his own accord. In this hope she calmed down, and tried to reduce her pupils to order.

Order, however, was not to be thought of. To the terror of the children was soon added their dismay at the havoc the bear was making. One after another basket was turned over and its contents rolled out on the floor, while he contentedly feasted himself on the food. The children could not take their eyes from him, and every time he turned his eyes towards them, they screamed and tried to hide behind Miss Brown.

When at last Bruin had emptied the baskets, and evidently filled himself with the good country lunches, he prepared to take a nap, and rolling his great body over in the small space he hit the open door, and, to the horror of Miss Brown, pushed it shut with a bang that latched it, and made him a prisoner as well as themselves!