"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over—'
"and there, dimly seen in the moonlight, she sat on a toadstool, wrapped in a mantle of green.
"'It is time, mortal, for you to be up and away. In yonder red castle lives a magician; it was he you saw cutting wood—this is the hour when he sleeps. Is your courage strong? Are you ready to do the impossible?' While she spoke the young man sprang to his feet.
"'Do you see the star straight before us in the heavens?' she asked. 'Keep your eyes fixed upon it, and think of her who is now dreaming of you; then if you obey me, all will be well.'
"She led him to the edge of the cliff, below him was the rushing stream; 'Look at the star and go on,' she cried.
"For one instant he hesitated. Go on? Where would the next step take him? Beneath were the rocks and the foaming torrent, but above him was the glowing star. He stepped bravely out. Louder and louder roared the torrent, brighter and brighter burned the star, firm and solid was the mysterious path. Confidence grew as he went on, his heart full of a great joy, and presently he felt the turf under his feet; the stream was crossed!
"As he paused to look back the truth flashed upon him: the bridge was where it had always been, but some strange spell had made it invisible!
"He went on his way, and all around him he seemed to hear fairy voices singing:—
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de ri do—'
"He stopped and, lifting his hat, said softly, 'Thank you, Sadonia!' and hoped she heard.
"On the next day the maiden and her lover had a joyous wedding, and the evil-minded magician slunk away in a rage to his castle, having discovered that love is stronger than magic; for no evil power can destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts, and faith and courage can always find the way."
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Clark, as Miss Sherwin paused, with a very becoming color in her cheeks, "who would have thought there was such a story hidden away in my old song."
"I am so pleased that we asked her to do it," said Mrs. Morrison, smiling across the table at the story-teller. "I had my suspicions before, and now they are confirmed," she added.
"I am just proud of you, Lil," said Miss Moore, beaming on her friend.
"I think it is a lovely story, but couldn'tyou have more about the fairies, Miss Sherwin?" Frances asked.
"And about the wedding and what the bride had on," suggested Gladys.
"But did you really make it all up?" inquired Emma.
The young lady laughed. "No, I only found it between the lines of the song, and I certainly think it can be improved."
"The moral is such a fine one," remarked Mrs. Morrison.
"That faith and courage can always find a way—yes, isn't it, if one could only live up to it," said Miss Moore.
"It has given me a great deal to think about," added the Spectacle Man. "The bridge is broke—but faith and courage will find the way; yes, I like it," and he nodded his head emphatically.
"I thought morals weren't interesting," said Frances, at which they all laughed, and Miss Sherwin said she hoped she hadnot made hers too prominent. "I feel very grateful to you for liking it," she added.
"I want you to elaborate it a little and send it toThe Young People's Journal," Mrs. Morrison said.
Miss Sherwin shook her head, but Miss Moore declared she would see that it was done.
Peterkin, who had been completely forgotten in the interest of the story, created a sensation just here by catching one of his sharp lower teeth in his frill, thereby causing temporary lockjaw. He was promptly released by Miss Moore, who declared he should not be dressed up again.
After he had gone into seclusion under the sofa, and the rest of the company were eating grapes and apples, Mr. Clark took down the Toby jug from the mantel shelf.
"It seems hardly right to tell another story to-night after the beautiful one we have listened to," he said, "but this is avery short one, and I promised Frances. This brown ware is called Rockingham, and you see how the likeness of a very fat old gentleman is embossed upon it. It is said that there once lived a jolly toper named Toby Fillpot. In the course of time he died and was buried, and then, according to an old drinking song:—
"'His body when long in the ground it had lain,And time into clay had resolved it again,A potter found out in its covert so snug,And from part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug.'
"In fact, I believe he made a number of them, and dedicated them to friendship, mirth, and mild ale."
"It seems to suggest Dickens; doesn't he somewhere mention a Toby jug?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"I don't remember, but it is likely," answered Mr. Clark.
"Was your grandfather an Englishman?" Miss Sherwin asked.
"Yes, he was English and my mother was French."
"I was sure there was French somewhere," said Mrs. Morrison.
The children thought the jug very funny and interesting, but Frances did not want to touch it after she had heard the story.
"It might really be true," she said, putting her hands behind her.
"Is this supposed to be one of the originals?" asked Miss Moore.
"Well, that is as you choose to believe. It is over one hundred years old, at any rate," was Mr. Clark's reply.
In spite of her disapproval of the place where the Morrisons had gone to live, Gladys was very often there. She liked Frances, and at the house of the Spectacle Man there seemed never to be any lack of something to do. There were glorious games of "I spy" in the halls when Emma was off duty, or visits to the studio where Miss Sherwin illustrated her stories and was delighted to have them pose for her, or if it were a rainy afternoon Mr. Clark did not object to their coming into the shop. He kept some glasses especially to lend to them on these occasions, and if business happened to be very dull he would entertain them with stories of his childhood, of which they never tired. Anychance customer must have been amused at the sight of three little girls in spectacles, seated in a row listening to the old man.
Gladys tyrannized over Emma and patronized her by turns, the latter being too timid to resent it openly; and Frances enjoyed playing the part of protector and defender. Naturally this state of affairs sometimes led to war, for Frances was quick-tempered and impulsive, and Gladys very stubborn.
One afternoon Mrs. Morrison went out, leaving the three children deeply interested in a new game. Everything went smoothly until Emma, who was sometimes rather slow in understanding things, made a wrong play that resulted in Gladys's defeat. When this was discovered Gladys in the excitement of the moment accused her of cheating, whereupon Emma began to cry and Frances became very angry.
"She didn't cheat, Gladys Bowen, you know she didn't; and you haven't any rightto say so!" she exclaimed, with blazing eyes.
"She did," asserted Gladys, with a dogged conviction in her tone that infuriated Frances, and sweeping the dominoes from the table she cried:—
"I'll never play with you again, never!"
"No, you will never have a chance," was the cool reply. "I won't play with either of you; and I'd be ashamed of myself if I were you, Frances."
"Oh, never mind!" urged Emma, aghast at the scene.
"I will mind. She knows it is a story—and—" Frances could get no further, her tears choked her, and rushing from the room she shut the door behind her.
Mrs. Morrison, coming in, found Gladys putting on her things with an air of injured innocence quite impressive, while Emma stood helplessly looking at her. The dominoes lay scattered on the floor.
"Where is Frances?" she asked.
"In the other room; she's mad," Gladys explained briefly.
Mrs. Morrison knew it would be useless to ask questions at this stage, so she only said she was sorry, and waited till Gladys left, then went to find her daughter.
Frances was lying on the bed crying convulsively.
"What is the matter?" her mother asked gently.
The child sat up, exclaiming between her sobs, "Gladys is so hateful. She said Emma cheated—and it's a story—and I'll never play with her again!"
"Oh, my little girl! I am so sorry," was all Mrs. Morrison said, as she left the room.
Sorry about what? Frances wondered as her anger cooled. Because Gladys had been so hateful? or was it because she had been in a passion?—but then she had a right to be angry. As she lay quiet for a while,feeling languid, now the storm had passed, a sense of shame stole over her.
Presently she went softly into the sitting room. It was growing dark, and her mother sat alone among the cushions of the couch; Frances nestled down beside her, and there in the firelight and the stillness she couldn't help feeling sorry, even though she still felt sure she had a right to be angry.
She wished her mother would speak, but as she did not, Frances asked, "Don't you think Gladys was very unkind?"
"She ought to have been very certain of the truth of what she said, before she accused any one of cheating."
"I think so too; and I had a right to be angry." She began to feel quite certain of this.
"I have been talking it over with Emma," said Mrs. Morrison, "and I find she did not understand the game. Shereally played as Gladys said, but she did it by mistake."
"Did she? But Gladys ought to have known Emma wouldn't cheat."
"And of course there was nothing for you to do, but throw down the dominoes and accuse Gladys of telling a story?"
"But, mother—" Frances hesitated.
"Suppose you had told Gladys that there must be some mistake, and then had tried to find out what it was."
"But I was so provoked."
"Yes, and you lost your self-control. You let yourself be ruled by your temper. It is sometimes right to be angry, but it is never right to be in a passion."
"Don't you think I am getting better of my temper?" Frances asked meekly.
"Yes, dear; I have thought so lately, and it was right for you to want to defend Emma; but to throw the dominoes on the floor, to be in such a fury—my darling,it makes me afraid for you! You might sometime do something that all your life would be a sorrow to you. God meant you to rule your feelings and passions, not be ruled by them. You are like a soldier who has surrendered to the enemy he might have conquered."
"I'll ask him to forgive me," Frances whispered.
"You know father and I want our little girl to grow into a sweet, gracious woman—"
"Just like you," Frances interrupted, with her arms around her mother's neck.
"No, not just like me," answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling; "you must be your own self, Wink. I have tried not to spoil you, but of course I have made mistakes, and now you are getting old enough to share the responsibility with me."
"Do you think you ought to punish me, mother?"
"Dear, I think the punishment will be the trying to set things right again."
Nothing more was said on the subject that evening, but the next day Frances came to her mother with a bright face; "I have found out what it means," she said.
"What what means?" Mrs. Morrison asked.
"The story of the bridge. You know Gladys is mad with me and won't come here any more— Emma says she said she would never speak to me again—and that is a broken bridge and I have to mend it; but I don't know how," she added.
"Perhaps you can find a way if you try," replied her mother, thinking it best to let her solve her own problems.
All day Frances' thoughts kept going back to the unfortunate quarrel, and even when she was not thinking about it she was not happy. The storm clouds hung low and made the atmosphere heavy.
At twilight she slipped downstairs and peeped into the study where Dick had just lit the lamp and Peterkin lay stretched at his ease before the bright fire. She stole in and sat beside him on the rug and stroked him softly. He purred gently, looking up in her face with so much wisdom in his yellow eyes she felt like telling him about the trouble.
Presently the Spectacle Man came with the evening paper, and was surprised and pleased to see her.
"Mr. Clark," she began, "I have a broken bridge to mend."
"Is that so? I hope it will not give you much trouble."
Frances sighed and put her face down on Peterkin's soft coat for a moment. "I am afraid it will," she said, and then she told the story.
The Spectacle Man listened gravely. "I don't believe the bridge is really broken,"he said; "it is only invisible beneath the clouds of anger and unkindness."
Frances drew a very deep breath. "Then what can I do?" she asked.
"How was it in the story?"
"But the young man had a fairy to help him.
"I don't think you need one; love and courage can find a way," said Mr. Clark.
Frances went upstairs very soberly. "Mother, I believe I'll write to Gladys," she said, going at once to her desk. It took a good deal of time and thought, but it was finished at last, and she felt a weight lifted from her heart as she put it in the envelope. This is what she wrote:—
"Dear Gladys: I am sorry I behaved so the other day. I was mad because you said Emma cheated, and I thought I had a right to be; but I know now I ought not to have been in a passion. It was a mistake;Emma did play wrong, but she didn't know any better. Gladys, I have found the moral of the story. The bridge between you and me is invisible because of the clouds of anger. I want to find it again, don't you?
"Dear Gladys: I am sorry I behaved so the other day. I was mad because you said Emma cheated, and I thought I had a right to be; but I know now I ought not to have been in a passion. It was a mistake;Emma did play wrong, but she didn't know any better. Gladys, I have found the moral of the story. The bridge between you and me is invisible because of the clouds of anger. I want to find it again, don't you?
"Your friend,"Frances Morrison."
This note was despatched by Wilson, and bright and early next day Gladys answered it in person. She went to Frances and kissed her. "I am not mad with you any more," she said; "it was nice of you to write that note, and I am sorry I said Emma cheated."
After this, Frances was as merry as a cricket, and went about singing:—
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,"
till her mother was forced to beg for a little variety.
Meanwhile the story of "The MissingBridge," with some changes and additions, and accompanied by two charming illustrations, had gone to seek its fortune in the office ofThe Young People's Journal, and it was no longer a secret that Miss Sherwin was in the habit of writing stories and had already met with considerable success.
Frances thought this a strong bond between them, "For father writes stories too, you know," she would often say.
It was about this time that the first letters, so long waited for, arrived from Honolulu, giving such glowing accounts of the voyage and the climate, and written in such evident good spirits, and so full of love for the two left behind, that they had to be read at least once a day for a week.
Frances wished very much to go to school, but for several reasons her mother did not think it wise, so she studied at home every morning, going upstairs at twelve o'clock to Miss Sherwin for a drawing lesson.
Emma thought this a delightful arrangement, but Frances looked with envy upon the children who passed, swinging their school bags. "It is because I wasn't strong last winter and mother thinks it wouldn't be good for me to be shut up in a schoolroom, but I shall go next year," she explained.
As the fall weather was beautiful they spent a great deal of time out of doors,and when Mrs. Morrison did not care to go herself she would send Frances with Zenobia for a walk or a ride on the cars, to the delight of the latter, who adored her young charge.
These two were returning from a long walk one cold day, when they met Emma Bond, who said she was going to Mrs. Marvin's with some work, and asked them to go back with her.
"I don't know whether mother would like me to; do you think she would care, Zenobia?" Frances asked.
It was only a short distance, and Zenobia couldn't see any harm in stopping a moment; so they went in with Emma and sat in the hall while she ran upstairs to speak to the housekeeper.
Everything was in perfect order to-day, and Frances gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she looked about her; it was all so warm and beautiful, with a stately sort of beautythat was very impressive. She sat as still as a mouse, listening to the ticking of some unseen clock.
Emma stayed a long time, and presently Frances whispered, "Zenobia, there is a picture I want to see, and I am just going to peep in that door; I'll be back in a minute;" and she stole softly across the hall as if afraid she might break the stillness.
The room she entered was a library, spacious and beautiful; but Frances thought of nothing but the portrait, which in the softened light that came from the curtained windows was more charming than ever.
"'Little girl, I wish I knew you'""'Little girl, I wish I knew you'"
"Little girl, I wish I knew you," she said half aloud, standing before it, her eyes bright from her walk in the keen air, her cheeks the deepest rose.
On the hearth a wood fire smouldered, breaking into little gleams of flame now and then.
"If you would only come down and talk to me, and tell me who you are," Frances continued under her breath, unconsciously taking the attitude of the picture girl who smiled down on her so brightly.
The fire purred softly, and there was added to this sound after a little a gentle rustle which, though she heard it, seemed so a part of the quiet that she gave it no thought. Then, suddenly, as if she had been awakened from a dream, she became conscious of the presence of some one near her.
Turning, her eyes met those of a very stately person who stood only a few feet away leaning on the back of a chair. She had silvery hair and a proud, handsome face, and for a second or two Frances continued to gaze at her, the two pairs of eyes holding each other as if by some magnetic power.
Then it flashed into Frances' mind that this must be Mrs. Marvin, and the spellwas broken. She had come home—and what must she think of a girl who roamed about her house without leave! The child wanted to explain, but words were not easy to find, and the lady did not speak.
"I did not know—" she began, then hesitated and tried again; "I thought—" her throat felt very dry, and she wondered if she had spoken at all. It was so strange and uncomfortable that tears rose to her eyes.
"I wish you would tell me who you are;" the lady spoke in a strange, cold voice.
The feeling that she was not being fairly treated, together with her determination not to cry, made Frances intensely dignified, and it was with a haughtiness almost equal to the lady's own that she replied, "My name is Frances Morrison," and with a movement of her head which seemed to add, "it is useless to try to explain," she turned away.
A singular expression came into thestranger's face; she sat down in the nearest chair. "I wish you would not go," she said; "I am afraid I startled you as much as you did me. Come and tell me how you happen to be here." Her tone was no longer cold, and she held out her hands appealingly.
The smile transformed her face, which was all sweetness and graciousness now, and impulsive little Frances was instantly won. She went quickly to the lady's side, saying in a breathless way she had when excited, "I thought perhaps you did not like it,—but I didn't know any one was here, and I wanted to see the picture again, so while Emma was upstairs I thought I'd just peep in, but I'm sorry—" she paused; evidently her words had not been heard. This strange person held her hands and gazed at her in the oddest way.
"And so you are a real little girl!" she said at length.
The child smiled uneasily, and seeing it, the lady put her arm around her and drew her closer. "Forgive me, dear, for not listening," she said. "You came with—whom?"
Again Frances explained, but perhaps she did not make it very clear, for her companion still looked puzzled.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
"No, we are spending the winter here, mother and I."
"Your mother and you—" the questioner repeated.
"Yes, while father is away; he has gone to Honolulu. We stopped here because mother was ill, and then theEastern Reviewwanted father to go to Hawaii, so we thought we'd just stay. We have a flat at the Spectacle Man's—I mean Mr. Clark's—and it is very nice."
"Is it?" The stranger's eyes travelled over the dainty figure. "You will think Iam asking a great many questions, but where did you get your name?" she added.
"It was my great-grandmother's. Mother wanted to put Chauncey in. That is father's name, John Chauncey Morrison. Perhaps you have read his stories." Again Frances saw that strange expression in the face before her.
"Do you know who I am?" the lady asked.
"I suppose you are Mrs. Marvin. Emma said you had not come home yet, but that you were coming very soon, and when I saw you I knew who it must be, and— I hope you'll excuse me," she added, remembering she had offered no apology.
Emma and Zenobia, who had been standing in the door for several minutes, now succeeded in catching Frances' eye. "I must go," she said, "they are waiting for me."
Mrs. Marvin glanced in their direction. "Will you come to see me again?" she asked.
"I don't know whether mother will let me," Frances replied doubtfully.
The lady suddenly took the child's face in her hands and kissed her lips,—such a strange, passionate kiss it was; and then Frances felt herself almost pushed away.
She had hardly any answer for Emma's excited questions, which began as soon as they were outside the door, but walked along with an absent expression that was rather provoking.
"I can't see what makes you so funny, Frances," said her friend.
"Why, Wink, how late you are!" Mrs. Morrison exclaimed, meeting them at the head of the steps, having spent the last half hour at the window.
Frances put her arms around her mother's neck. "Oh, mother, I have seen such abeautiful lady, and she kissed me, and it made me feel like crying!"
By degrees Mrs. Morrison had the whole story, and looked rather grave over it. "I am sorry you went in at all, dear, and it was very wrong to go wandering about the house, even though you thought the owner was away."
"But I don't think she minded; at least she asked me to come again, so I think she must have liked me."
Mrs. Morrison smiled as she kissed her little daughter; she saw nothing improbable in this.
"I think I won't tell Jack about it," she said to herself, "For it would only worry him; but I'll be careful to have it understood that Frances is not to go into any house unless I am with her or have given my permission. It can't happen again. Marvin is not a name I ever heard Jack mention, I am quite sure of that."
"Jack's little girl! can it be? It is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. I do not understand it." Mrs. Marvin paced restlessly back and forth, an expression of pain and perplexity on her handsome face.
"Why should I care?" she thought; "what is it to me? I gave it all up long ago.— And yet—that dear little girl—those eyes—a Morrison every inch of her! There can be no mistake, but it is all a mystery how she happened to come here. How weak I am! why should it torture me so? Oh, Jack, Jack!" She hid her face in her hands.
It showed, however, no trace of emotionwhen half an hour later she encountered her housekeeper in the upper hall.
"Caroline, who is the little girl who came to see you this afternoon?" she asked.
"I suppose it was Emma Bond, Miss Frances; her mother has been hemstitching some pillow cases."
"Do you know anything about the child who was with her? I think she said she lived in the same house."
"I don't know who she is, Miss Frances. She is a pretty child, but I don't remember her name if I ever heard it."
"I saw her and was rather attracted to her. She seemed not quite the sort of child you would expect to find in a tenement house. There was a very respectable looking maid with her."
Caroline smiled. She was a bright-faced Swiss woman who had lived with her mistress for nearly thirty years, knew her thoroughly, and loved her devotedly. Shewas not deceived by the air of indifference with which the lady moved away; she understood that for some reason her mistress wished to find out all she knew about this little girl.
"It isn't what you'd call a tenement house," she said; "the man who owns it has made it into flats. He lives there himself, and has his shop, and Mrs. Bond keeps house for him. It is a real nice place."
"I fail to see the difference," was the reply; "but, Caroline, why did she think I was Mrs. Marvin? She called me so."
"I don't know, Miss Frances, unless it was Emma Bond's mistake. Her mother did some sewing for Mrs. Marvin when she was staying here."
"Well, Caroline, if you see Mrs. Bond you need not say anything about the mistake. You understand? I have a reason for wishing them to think I am Mrs. Marvin, as in fact I am."
"I should like to know what it means," Caroline said to herself as her mistress walked away.
"This is all very melodramatic and absurd, but I must have time to consider," the lady was thinking as she entered her own room, and closed the door behind her. "I must contrive to see her again."
Going to a cabinet, she took from an inner compartment a box, then she had a long search for the key, and after it was found she sat with the box on her lap gazing absently before her.
It was thirteen—almost fourteen years since she had lifted that lid. She had thought never to open it, unless—well, unless the impossible happened, and now a pair of brown eyes had aroused an irresistible longing to look once more on something that lay hidden there. In vain she told herself it was foolish, idle, worse than childish. She recalled the burninganger and resentment with which she had put the box away so long ago. Yes, and had she not just cause? But the touch of those young lips was still fresh upon her own, and whether she would or not, was carrying her back, back to the dear old days.
There was really very little in it, she reflected, as she began to look over the contents; but a few trifles can mean so much sometimes. There was a light brown curl, some photographs that showed how a certain chubby, dimpled baby had developed into a manly boy of sixteen, a bundle of letters in a schoolboy hand, and down at the very bottom, the thing she was so anxious to see again, a lovely miniature of a boy of seven.
She gazed at it long and earnestly. Such a dear little face! and this afternoon she had seen the same smile, had looked into the same eyes! Jack's daughter! was it possible?
He had called her Frances, too; he had not quite forgotten. It was, of course, a family name, and with all his independence Jack had a great deal of family pride. And the air with which she had said, "Perhaps you have read his stories,"—she could have laughed, but for the pain of the thought that she who had once been first had now no part in his life. Others had the right to be proud of him, but not she.
She closed the lid and put the box away: the past could not be recalled, she must try to forget, as she had tried all these years; but even as she made the resolve her heart was saying, "I must see that child again,—I must, must!"
"Hurrah!" said the Spectacle Man, "Mark's coming home for Christmas." He waved a letter above his head as he spoke, and looked as if he might be going to dance a jig.
"Is he? I am very glad," replied Frances, who had run down to speak to the postman, and now paused in the open door of the shop.
"I was really afraid we couldn't manage it, travelling costs so much, but one of his friends has given him a pass. Mark is a great fellow for such things!" Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure.
Frances wished she might bring her books and study her lessons in the shop, it was so sunny and cheerful, with Peterkinstretched out in lazy comfort before the fire, his master busy at his work-table over some lenses.
"Mother, do you know it will be Christmas in two weeks?" she asked, as she entered the sitting room; "and Mark is coming home," she added. "Do you think he will be nice?"
"We may as well give him the benefit of any doubt," said Mrs. Morrison, answering the last question. "What do you want to do for Christmas, Wink?"
"What can we do without father?" the little girl exclaimed, thinking of the merrymakings of other years in which he had always been prime mover.
"We are so glad to know how well and strong he is getting that we can manage to have some sort of a happy time without him, I think," her mother replied. "Suppose you ask Miss Sherwin if she and Miss Moore will be here through the holidays."
The air was full of Christmas plans, the streets were full of Christmas shoppers, and the dwellers in the house of the Spectacle Man could not escape the contagion. The girls on the third floor were not going home, and were very willing to unite with their neighbors in a little festivity.
Miss Moore proposed a tree, which, in kindergarten fashion, they should all unite in trimming. Emma and Frances immediately offered to string pop-corn and cranberries, and went to work with great ardor, having at the same time to bribe the General to attend to his own affairs, with wonderful stories of Santa Claus, and the toys he had in store for good boys.
Emma was as happy as a lark. In past years the Sunday-school tree had been all she had to look forward to, and the thought of having one in the house was almost too much. Gladys also condescended to help with the pop-corn, although she wasrather scornful of such home-made decorations.
"I suppose I may invite Gladys to our tree, mayn't I?" Frances asked one evening of the busy circle gathered around the table in Miss Sherwin's studio.
"I should think so," her mother replied.
"I know a girl I'd like to ask. She is in my class, and she lives in Texas, and I do not believe she has a single friend in the city." As she spoke, Miss Moore carefully smoothed out the photograph she was mounting.
"You do it beautifully," said Mrs. Morrison, looking over her shoulder.
"It is the 'Holy Night' by Plockhorst, as you see; we are going to give one to each of our infants, and I offered to mount them. I like to paste; it is my one talent."
"For a Christmas picture, this is my favorite," and Miss Sherwin took from aportfolio a photograph of the Magi on the way to Bethlehem.
Emma and Frances left their cranberries to look at it.
"How wonderfully simple and dignified it is! The wide sweep of the desert, and the stately figures of the Wise Men, as they follow the star," remarked Mrs. Morrison.
"But no one has answered Miss Moore. Wouldn't it be nice to invite her girl?" said Frances, going back to her work again.
"Why, of course, and perhaps we'll find some one else who is not likely to have a happy day," her mother answered.
"There's Mrs. Gray," said Frances meditatively; "I wonder if she likes Christmas trees?"
So it began, and before they knew it the original plan was quite outgrown.
When Mark arrived he proved to be a tall, bright-faced boy of sixteen, overflowing withgood spirits, who contrived to get acquainted with all the inmates of the house before twenty-four hours had passed.
He took a lively interest in the tree, and suggested having it in his uncle's study. Then on Christmas Eve the cases could be moved out of the way in the shop, and both rooms be given up to the frolic.
As the Spectacle Man was more than willing, this was decided upon; and as it would give them so much more room, Miss Moore thought she'd like to ask two other young women, who were studying in a business college, and boarded in the same house with her Texas friend. Mark knew two fellows he'd like to have, and his uncle wished to invite a young man who had come once or twice to his Bible class, and who was a stranger in town.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Morrison, when they were discussing it, "we had better limit our invitations to those who are not likely to have a merry Christmas."
"My young man doesn't look as if he knew the meaning of merry," said Mr. Clark.
"My girls may know its meaning, but they haven't much chance to practise it, in the dingy boarding house," added Miss Moore.
"I am sure Mrs. Gray doesn't have any fun," said Frances, who clung to her idea of asking the old lady.
There couldn't have been found a merrier party in the whole city than that at work in the Spectacle Man's study on Christmas Eve. Mark had brought in a quantity of cedar and mistletoe, and while Mrs. Morrison and Miss Sherwin trimmed the tree, the children and Miss Moore turned the shop into a bower of fragrant green.
Mark was full of mischief, and romped with Frances, and teased Emma until she wished she could crawl under the bookcase as Peterkin did under the same circumstances.The General trotted about in a gale of delight, getting in everybody's way, and was most unwilling to leave the scene of action when his mother came to take him to bed.
Mrs. Bond lifted her hands in dismay at so much work for nothing.
"But isn't it pretty?" asked Mrs. Morrison, from the top of the step-ladder.
"It is pretty enough, but it all has to come down, and then what a mess!" was the reply.
"Still, it is fun, and Christmas comes but once a year. Here, Mark, this is to decorate the immortal George. Can you reach?" and Miss Moore held out a beautiful branch of holly.
"You'll come to the party, won't you, Mrs. Bond?" Frances asked.
"Come? of course she will; no one in this house can be excused," said Mr. Clark, entering the room with some interesting packages under his arm.
The little girls were extremely curious about some work Miss Sherwin and Mrs. Morrison had been doing, which they kept a secret from everybody, and now the sight of a number of flat parcels in tissue paper tied with red ribbon excited them afresh.
"Is that what you have been making?" asked Frances.
"Just part of it," Miss Sherwin replied, as she hung them on the tree.
"Emma, what do you suppose they are? Everybody is to have one, for I have counted," Frances whispered.
"I don't know, I am sure; but isn't it fun!" and Emma spun around like a top in her excitement.
"And she says it is only part," continued Frances.
"I believe we have done all that can be done to-night," said Mrs. Morrison, crossing the room to get a better view of the tree.
"It will be a beauty when it is lighted. Ithink even Gladys will admire it," remarked Miss Moore.
Wilson, who had come in to sweep up, looked at it critically. "We had a tree at the Institute last year that was lighted with inclandestine lights," he said.
Mark giggled, and Mrs. Morrison looked puzzled for a minute, then she smiled as she said, "Yes, I have heard of lighting them by electricity, but ours is a home-made affair."
"Isn't Wilson absurd?" laughed Miss Sherwin as they all went into the next room. "What do you think he said to me the other day? He complained that Mrs. Bond was too unscrupulous to live with, and when I asked him what he meant, he said she required him to wash off the front porch every morning before he went to school, and that made him late for his Greek lesson, and in his opinion it was very unscrupulous."
"If it wasn't for Zenobia I think he wouldtry to find a place where more respect was shown to Greek," said Mrs. Morrison.
Mrs. Marvin's housekeeper came in to see Mrs. Bond that evening, and on her way out she had full view of the study, where work was still going on. Seeing Frances and recognizing her, she asked her name, and seemed very much surprised at Mrs. Bond's reply.
"Frances Morrison!" she repeated, "why that is—" she checked herself, but stood watching the group as if deeply interested.
"Do you know her?" asked Mrs. Bond.
Caroline shook her head. "The name's familiar, that is all," she replied.
Christmas Day was gloomy as to weather, but that was a small matter with so much merriment going on indoors. After the excitement of examining stockings was over the party was the event ofthe day, and was looked forward to with eager anticipation by the children.
It was to be an early party, the guests having been invited to come at six o'clock. Gladys was the first to arrive, and the three little girls sat on the big hall sofa and waited for the others to come. The shop was brilliantly lighted and looked quite unfamiliar with all the show-cases moved back against the wall, and its trimmings of cedar and holly. In the centre of the room on a table was the secret which had so excited Emma and Frances. A dozen or more cards were arranged around a central one, upon which was printed, "A Christmas Dinner"; on each of the other cards was a picture representing some part of the dinner. Miss Sherwin presided over this, and Frances presented each guest, as he or she arrived, with a pencil and a blank card on which the names of the various dishes were to be written asthey were guessed. The one guessing the largest number was to have a prize, and everybody was to try except Mrs. Morrison and Miss Sherwin, who had prepared the pictures, and of course knew what they meant.
This served to break the ice, and Miss Moore's girls, and Mark's friends, and the Spectacle Man's shy student, all became sociable directly, as they moved about the table.
To the delight of Frances, Mrs. Gray came. She was quite apologetic over it, saying it seemed ridiculous for her to be going anywhere, but she didn't know when she had seen a Christmas tree, and so at the last minute she had decided to come.
"We take it as a great compliment," Mrs. Morrison said, helping her with her wraps and leading her to Mr. Clark's arm-chair.
She was a sweet-looking old lady in herwhite cap and embroidered kerchief, and Miss Sherwin said her presence gave just the grandmotherly touch their party needed. Miss Moore decorated her with a sprig of holly, and every one tried to make her have a good time. The guests were all brought to her corner and introduced, and then, while the rest were busy trying to guess the menu, Mr. Clark came and sat beside her and talked of old times, and the changes that had come to the city since they were young.
It may have been an odd sort of party, but it was a success; and the shy young man proved himself more clever than any one else, for he guessed all the dishes. Some of them were very easy, the first, for instance, which was simply some points cut out of blue paper and pasted on a card.
"I know what they are," said Mark, "but three wouldn't be enough for me."
Every one knew the map without a namemust beTurkey, but the small strips of different shades of green did not at first suggestolives; a cat on the back of a chair puzzled some, but meantcatsupat once to others. An infant in a high chair yelling for dear life, was of courseice cream, but the medical student was the only one to guess the meaning of a calf reposing on the grass. He explained his cleverness by saying that his mother often madeveal loaf, and he was very fond of it.
When he had received his prize, which was a box of candy, it was time for the tree. While they were all thinking of something else, Mr. Clark had slipped in and lighted it, and there it was, all in a blaze of glory!
The Spectacle Man was master of ceremonies, and it was worth something to see his face as he stepped about taking things from the tree and calling out names.
For each there was a photograph of theMagi on the way to Bethlehem, and, besides these, there were other things both useful and amusing, that had been picked up at the ten-cent store, or manufactured at home.
No one enjoyed it more than Mrs. Gray, unless it was the General, whose enthusiasm knew no bounds, and who pranced about with a woolly lamb in one hand and a Japanese baby in the other. Even Mrs. Bond relaxed, and for at least an hour did nothing but look on and be amused.
When the tree was exhausted they had some light refreshments, and then played old-fashioned games in which all could join.
"I don't know when I have had such a good time," said Mrs. Gray, as she was getting ready to go; "and I don't see how you happened to think of me."
"We had made up our minds to be lonely and homesick, but we have laughedso much I don't see how we can ever be doleful again," remarked Miss Moore's friend.
"It is the funniest party I ever went to," Gladys whispered to Frances, "but I have had the loveliest time!"
The shy student had enjoyed himself more than he could express in words, and his face spoke for him as he said good night.
"I am going to have a Christmas tree every year of my life till I die," the Spectacle Man declared; and if he had had the least encouragement, he would have gone to work on the spot to plan another party.
In Frances' very own book there was a story of a boy who had a beautiful voice, and who with a great many other boys sang in the choir of Christ Church. The story was somewhat sad, for the boy, who loved dearly to sing, lost his sweet voice one day and never found it again; but the memory of the music as it floated up to the Gothic arches, and of the sunlight from the great stained window falling a shaft of crimson and gold across the chancel at vesper service, remained with him, and out of it grew the story.
And the story became very real indeed to Frances when one Sunday afternoon her father took her to the very church wherethe boy used to sing. It was such a pleasure to her that after this she and her mother often went together, and Frances pretended that one of the choir boys, who happened to have dark eyes and a high clear voice, was little Jack, and there were certain hymns she loved to hear because he used to sing them.
It was the Sunday after Christmas, and Emma had just come up to know if she might go to church with Frances, when Gladys walked in, gorgeously arrayed in velvet and silk. Though rather over-dressed she looked very pretty, but as soon as she spoke it became evident that she was not in a very good humor.
"I don't like Sunday," she asserted, with the air of wishing to shock somebody.
Emma exclaimed, "Oh, Gladys!" and looked at Mrs. Morrison to see the effect of this remark upon her; but apparentlyit hadn't any, for the lady went on turning the leaves of the book she held, half smiling.
"I do; why don't you like it, Gladys?" asked Frances.
"You can't do anything you want to do, and everybody is cross or taking a nap. Mamma has a headache, and she said I shouldn't come over here, but I just told her I was coming. I knew she wouldn't care if I didn't bother her."
"Your mother is pretty funny, Gladys," Frances observed.
"Suppose you go with us to service this afternoon and hear the Christmas music; we can stop and ask your mother on the way," Mrs. Morrison suggested.
"Do come, Gladys, it is lovely to hear the choir boys, and perhaps they will sing 'O little town of Bethlehem,'" said Frances, adding, with a nod to Emma, who knew the story, "That is one of them."
Gladys did not decline the invitation,but she did not seem enthusiastic, and presently announced, "Emma says you ought to like to go to church better than to the circus, or anywhere, to any entertainment, but I don't."
"Oh!" exclaimed Frances, with a long-drawn breath, "I suppose you ought to, but— Mother, ought you to like church better than tableaux? Don't you remember those beautiful ones we saw in North Carolina?"
Emma again looked at Mrs. Morrison, confident in the strength of her position. "Oughtn't you?" she urged.
"Let me ask you a question. Which would you rather do, stay at home to-morrow afternoon, or go to see 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"
"'The Mistletoe Bough!'" cried three voices.
"Does that mean that you care more for tableaux than you do for your homes?"
"No, mother, of course not, only—" Frances hesitated.
"No, of course you do not, but for the time the tableaux are more amusing. It seems to me we must make a distinction between caring for things and finding them entertaining. You may care a great deal for church and yet not find it as amusing as some other places."
"I never thought of it in that way," said Mark, who had come in while they were talking.
"We ought not to care too much for amusement, but try to learn to take pleasure in other things," continued Mrs. Morrison. "We do not love persons or things because we ought to, but because they seem to us lovely; and yet when we think for how long people have gone on building churches—plain little chapels, grand cathedrals—and have worshipped God in them, and found help and blessing, surely we ought not to bewilling to say, 'I don't like church,' but should try to find out its beautiful meaning for ourselves."
"I am afraid I am a good deal like Gladys; I have found it rather a bore," said Mark.
"You remember our Christmas picture of the Wise Men," Mrs. Morrison went on. "They had learning and wealth and distinction, and yet they took that long, weary journey for what?"
"The star," said Gladys.
"To find Jesus," said Frances.
"Yes, with all their riches and learning they felt the need of something else, and the star was sent to guide them. And to-day each one of us has some heavenly vision which he must obey and follow as the Wise Men followed the star."
Frances shook her head. "I never had a vision," she said.
"Yes, I think you have sometimes feltwhat a beautiful thing it would be to be good. Perhaps when you have listened to the Christmas story you have determined to let the Christ-Child into your heart. If you have, it is your vision; and if you obey it, it will grow stronger and clearer. In the midst of all our work and play, the vision often grows dim, but going to God's house and thinking of Him and what He wants us to do, helps to keep it bright."
"I wish we had a real star to follow; it would be easier," said Gladys.'
"We'd probably forget to watch it," said Mark. "I know how it is at school. A fellow makes up his mind to grind away and do his very best, and then before he knows it, the edge of his resolution wears off, and he finds himself skinning along, taking it easy."
Mrs. Morrison smiled. "Yes, that is the way with most of us: we forget so easily. And now let's go to church and try tothink what the Christmas star means for us."
The Spectacle Man who happened to be at the shop window when the little party started out, smiled to himself at sight of Mark walking beside Mrs. Morrison. "That is just what my boy needs," he said. "It isn't much influence an old uncle can have."
The church was fragrant and beautiful in its Christmas dress, the light came softly through the stained windows, and above the festoons and wreaths of cedar shone the brilliant star. The children sat very still, with earnest faces, till the service began, then, to Frances' delight, the processional was "O little town of Bethlehem."
With their heads together over the book, she and Gladys sang too. At the last stanza Frances, who knew the words, gazed straight at the star, forgetful of everything but the music:—