I. MEMORIES.

So sang the clear, full, childish voice. Singularly melodious, thrilling, sympathetic, it floated up and out, seeming to envelope in a tender, joyous harmony all who came within its range.

In the library “Father dear” sat with pen suspended and moistened eyes, as the notes of the Christmas Carol were borne in upon him. The thronging memories carried him back to that wonderful Christmas morning eight years before, when the sweet singer was born.

She had come in a flood of golden sunlight, when Christmas bells were chiming, happy voices singing, and the joy of life seemed rampant upon all the[Pg 2] earth. The “doctor friend” had come to him in this same library and had said:

“The Christmas day has brought to you and your house God’s blessing—the gift of a little child.”

Together they had gone to that quiet, peaceful room, and found mother with the baby girl upon her arm. “A tiny image of your own dear self,” he had fondly said, and with the passing years, the child had kept that strong likeness to her mother, both in character and features.

Later he had gone about the house attending to the many things they had planned for others. Like two children, they had always kept many of the Christmas customs: hung up their stockings, had a huge Christmas tree for all the household, remembering every one in a way that would bring the most real joy, given to each child friend some longed for treasure, fed the birds and put a lighted candle in the window to guide the Christ Child. Each Christmas they had tried to bring comfort to some sorrowing heart, sharing their joy, letting their light shine.

Everywhere he had turned that day, he had been met with smiling faces, hearty hand clasps, and more than one fervent “God bless you, sir,” from hearts that could tell of burdens lifted or eased, and of lives turned from bitterness to sweetness. Truly, it had been a day of rejoicing.

At sunset he had sat with the little mother again, telling her about the day as together they watched from her window the ever changing glory of the sea. “No sorrowing one has knocked at our door to-day,”[Pg 3] he said gently, “our Christmas candle has brought only joy.” And she had softly quoted:

Cuddling their baby close, she had looked with shining eyes from the child to him and said earnestly, “She is a little Christmas Star. Who knows what message of joy she brings, what midnight gloom she may dispel?”

Then he had gone, at her request, to light the Christmas tree, and the countless candles throughout the house, had given loving greetings and messages from her and baby to all the household gathered in the big hall and had stopped to sing one Christmas Carol that she might hear. It was as his voice soared upward to her,

that she had gone, gone on the wings of light and song, leaving him dumb, alone in the dark.

Later, Jeanie, faithful friend, had brought to him, “the wee Lassie, sir,” and drawing the shades high, had flooded the room with moonlight; then left him alone with his little comforter.

[Pg 4]

Long he had stood looking out on the golden path of light and glory that seemed to stretch from the great Beyond, across the sea, through the window, and to encircle him and the tiny daughter, his blessing, his joy, his little “Christmas Star.” She had indeed lighted him through the dark way, comforted him, helped him to accept the cup of sorrow with fortitude.

She had been christened “Dorothy” for her grandmother, and had grown in grace and beauty. There had been no lack of loving care, willing hearts and hands had served her; first, for love of the mother, who gave her birth, later for love of herself.

The song ceased. Then quick dancing footsteps, the opening and closing of the library door, and the singer was by his side. Throwing her arms about his neck, she covered his face with kisses. Stepping back and holding his face between her hands, she looked long and lovingly at him. “Father, dear, I have kissed the sorry lines all away except those back of your eyes.” Then settling herself in his arms she fell silent,—still for a time.

“Father, dear, the Christmas Carols seem always to make you sorrowful. I have noticed, too, when we sing the carols in church, that so many people look sad. Often, I have seen tears in their eyes. Only the children look really happy. Why is that, father?”

“It was a message of joy that came upon the midnight clear, wasn’t it?” Then nestling closer, she went on softly: “You know I was singing the carol to mother just now, the one she loved the best,[Pg 5] because I could just feel her happy thought, and I wanted to be happy with her, then suddenly, I thought you would be remembering, so I came.”

A thoughtful pause, and then—“I wonder why she seems so far away to you! Perhaps you shut her out thinking that she is dead, and don’t understand that she is with us in the thought of love she left all about us. You know that is what mother lettered her own self over the center window in my nursery, ‘God is Love.’

“Jeanie said she watched her paint it and the other one too: ‘Thou shalt not be afraid,’ and while she painted, she explained to Jeanie. Sometimes, it seems as if I could hear her explaining to me. Of course, I can not tell what she says,—it isn’t words exactly,—but it’s just as if that love were a great white cloud, wrapping me round and round wherever I am, and holding me safe from harm,—like your arms, father, dear. You see,—love is just,—why it’s everything. Jeanie says, ‘love never dies.’”

The twilight shadows were falling fast around them, but the Bethlehem Star of peace and joy had risen in both their hearts. Father dear had caught a new note in the Christmas Carol. “Love never dies.”

[Pg 6]

II. GROWING IN GRACE.

Dorothy had finished her lessons and was sitting in the deep window seat in the nursery, looking out upon the water, and listening to the voices of the waves as they dashed against the shore.

She was on friendly terms with all her world, the flowers, the trees, and every dancing sunbeam held a language for her.

Horses, dogs and birds, every living thing that came into her life became her friends.

Her loving confidence in her fellow beings won from each the best he had to give.

So carefully had she been kept from all self-pity and the tearful sympathy of unwise friends that she was in every way a wholesome, happy, winsome little lassie.

There was no room in all the house that Dorothy loved quite so well as her own dear nursery. Here she always came to dream her dreams, or study out her weighty problems.

This was the room that mother dear had thought out for her, before ever she was born. Every detail spoke silently, but eloquently, to the child’s mind of harmony and purity, of true uplifting ideals.

The artistic coloring of walls and rugs, the few pictures chosen for their real value and lasting[Pg 7] impressions; the wide outlook on sea and sky and garden, together with everything that could make for health and comfort, voiced the wise and loving care of the mother whose tender eyes looked down from above the mantel at the little dreamer in the window seat.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Lois, a child about a year younger than Dorothy, bounded in, while just behind and fairly tumbling over her came a great white dog, a Scotch collie called Rings, because of a buff-colored ring of hair around his tail.

In a moment, quiet had taken flight, and a game of hide and seek was in full swing. Rings had played this game since puppy days, he knew all the best hiding places, and he knew just how long to search before discoveries were in order. Gravely he walked about poking his nose into possible covers and then away he dashed to the goal amid peals of laughter. Jeanie dropped her sewing to enjoy the sport.

Father, entering the house with the doctor remarked: “We are evidently just in time for the fun.” They joined the players in the upper hall and away they all streamed to the play room with Rings in hot pursuit.

Racing through the school-room, they swept the little German music master off his feet. But he had not forgotten his boy days and, dropping hat and gloves, was after them. Timothy, guide, philosopher and friend, and incidentally manager of the estate, coming in from the greenhouse with flowers,[Pg 8] deposited his precious burden in the arms of a maid, and took the stairs in leaps. Timothy had assisted in the merriment ever since Dorothy could ride on his shoulder, holding fast to his curly hair. The frolic spread all over the house.

Lois was found hiding behind a stately footman. The doctor was dragged by Rings from under the dining-room table. Father stowed himself on the top shelf of the linen press, nearly causing Rings to turn himself inside out in his effort to get at him. Timothy lost himself in a cubby-hole in the attic and had to be rescued, for the door had no inside latch. The fun was brought to a breathless climax, when Bridgie, the cook, hid Dorothy in a great boiler and no one could find her. * * *

The doctor looked wistfully after Jeanie as she went up the wide stairs with a dancing child clinging to either hand. “That is a pretty picture,” he said to Mr. Douglas; “you should be a happy man, for you have caused some sorrowing ones to rejoice. Jeanie, now—it is ten years, is it not? I thought that night you called me to come quickly, I had never seen a face so sad. Jeanie is all that is noble, God bless her!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Douglas, “think what she has been to us. My wife, Stella, talked to her by the hour before Dorothy was born, told her all her plans, hopes and fears. It was Stella who insisted that the old tradition of the Christmas Candle had a great significance, ‘the light could guide no ill to us.’”

“Yes, we have been privileged to dry some of the[Pg 9] tears, open the blinds for a few so that the sunlight might come in. But think of the blessing brought to us. Look at Timothy, and Bridgie; could money buy the influence that is thrown about Dorothy? When I think of all they do for me and mine, I feel that I have done very little.”

“How about that little Lois?” asked the doctor.

“She is another blessing. Jeanie came upon the child in the city (living with a Mrs. MacDonald, who did fine sewing) and in time learned her story. It seems that Mrs. MacDonald’s brother, who was a sailor on the steamship M—— (lost about six years ago, you remember), rescued this child. The passengers were picked up by several vessels and widely separated. This sailor took the child at first to a sister in Scotland and afterwards to America in his search for her parents. He made every effort to find them, but grew discouraged as time went on and he found no clue. Mrs. MacDonald felt that the child should have advantages they could not give, and they were sorely troubled.

“They called her Lois, because of the initials L. O. I. S. on a handkerchief bound around the little wrist. It was the only mark about her, except the beautiful clothing.

“Well—you know the rest. It was something I could do, so here she is, and royally welcome. If we never find her parents, we will try and make good her loss.

“Dorothy is right. She says it is ridiculous for one little girl to have as much as she does, and ‘Mother dear would want us to share.’

[Pg 10]

“By the way, doctor, Christmas plans are in the air; stay and hear about them.

“I will indeed,” said the doctor, as they turned toward the library door. “Do you know,” the doctor continued, “that of all lonesome things on the face of the earth a bachelor’s lot at Christmas time seems the very essence of dreariness?”

The words were spoken jestingly, but there was an undercurrent of intense pathos in them, that made Mr. Douglas lay his hand lovingly on his shoulder as he said, gravely: “I believe you are right, my friend; I am a rich and happy man, not only in the possession of present blessings, but in the precious memories of past joys. I think this is going to be the very best Christmas of all my life, because I am learning a little of true gratitude.”

“It is going to be a rough night,” said Mr. Douglas, as he turned to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness and noted the white flakes falling on the window-ledge outside. “The gray clouds have been settling down all day, the wind is rising rapidly, and there is every indication of a heavy storm. There promises to be plenty of snow for the Christmas frolic.”

Then, drawing the shades, he drew two comfortable easy chairs before the fire, just as the children came tripping in.

[Pg 11]

III. CHRISTMAS PLANS.

“Well,” said the doctor, “let us hear about the Christmas plans. I feel perfectly certain that I shall have to go to the city and offer assistance to Santa Claus. Every year it turns out that some little boy or girl gets up Christmas morning to an empty stocking and no one wants such a thing to happen.”

“Why, that’s just what we want to do—give a really merry Christmas to some of the sorry ones,” and Dorothy plunged into the subject. “You know last summer there were some children in this neighborhood, ‘Fresh air children,’ they were called. Jeanie brought one of them, a little girl, Maddie Morrison, over here to see if any of my dresses would fit her. We played with her in the garden a long time. She said she wanted to live here always, because it was so quiet, she ‘could hear her own feet walking.’

“Do you know, Maddie had never seen flowers growing out of doors and never had rolled on the grass. It was the way she talked of her home, and the way she lived with her grandmother, that made us plan to have a Christmas time.

“It is just as lovely in the country in the winter as it is in the summer, and so different.”

[Pg 12]

“The air is just as fresh,” broke in Lois, and they all laughed while Rings drew a little nearer to the crackling grate fire.

“The people who invited the children last summer,” Dorothy, full of her cherished plans, went on, “have invited them this Christmas time. The children are coming one week before Christmas day and stay until after the New Year. We are planning to have two weeks of happy days; snow-balling, sleighing, making snow men and forts, and, oh! all kinds of winter games.

“Every one is going to do something to give them a good time. Mrs. Grant is going to invite them to her house to pop corn, Mrs. Waring is going to show them some beautiful pictures and have a moonlight ride, father says Lois and I may invite them to a candy pull, and give a party Christmas afternoon. We are going to have a Santa Claus hunt.

“There will be a gift hidden about the house for each child and he or she must find it. It’s going to be a happy time for every one.”

“Is there to be a Christmas tree?” asked the doctor.

“Not at the party; Christmas eve and Christmas morning are to belong to their hostess. She is to see about the tree and hanging the stockings and the surprises, and all that, just as if it were her own little boy or girl.”

“The only thing that spoils it a little is,—we can’t find Maddie Morrison,” broke in Lois. “She does[Pg 13] not live where she used to and we planned to have her with us.”

The doctor leaned suddenly forward, his face all aglow with eagerness, as he exclaimed: “That’s just what I’ve been waiting for, some definite instruction from Santa Claus. I’m going in search of Maddie. She shall have all these good things that have been planned for her.” Then, with an expression of utter bewilderment, he questioned: “Am I to send her by parcel post or just bring her in my suit case, or, will she be able to travel like any ordinary little girl, when she hears of the wonderful two weeks?”

A burst of laughter was their only reply.

“Very well,” he said, “but I shall certainly find Maddie if she is findable.”

“When you find her bring her to us,” said Mr. Douglas, “and we will see that she has proper clothing—that is the arrangement for each child.”

“No!” the doctor declared, “‘finding is keeping.’ I shall fit her out myself. Perhaps Jeanie can be persuaded to come with me and see how well I know what a little girl needs. Why shouldn’t I have a stocking hung up in my chimney, a Christmas tree on my hearth, a Christmas candle in my window?” he demanded smilingly.

“We have worked very hard and long to earn our part for the Christmas surprise for the city children,” continued Dorothy.

“Worked! Earned! Why, what did you work at and how did you earn anything?” the doctor asked, incredulously.

[Pg 14]

“Do tell us,” father begged. “I knew something was going on, but I have waited to be told about it.”

“Well,” said Dorothy, “you know if we did not put ourselves into it somehow, it would not be a true gift. We are not very big and cannot make many things that would be of any real value, and we have only the money father gives us. We have saved nearly all of that——”

“And,” Lois interrupted, “I put in the five-dollar gold piece Father Douglas gave me, because I routed the ‘think you can’ts,’ and learned to play the scales.”

“Yes, and we’ve found out that the ‘think you can’ts’ are really ‘don’t want tos,’” Dorothy explained earnestly. “Sometimes I don’t even want to want to,” she added pensively. “Jeanie told us she knew just the thing for us to do. Jeanie said, if we would do certain things which meant a great deal more to us and others than money, we could have all we needed and know we had earned it——”

“And,” chimed in Lois, “I just know we earned it.”

“What were some of the things?” asked father.

“Why, the truly smiling, when you wanted to cry; and thinking kindly about people who seem not so very pleasant; trying to understand how they feel; being patient and willing and cheerful and obedient; without any ‘wait a minutes,’ or ‘I’d rather nots,’ or ‘whys,’” both children excitedly explained.

“Jeanie says ‘whys’ are all right, but its wise to remember the ‘musts.’ You know, reading pages[Pg 15] of French, that have no story in them, and playing the exercises that make your fingers strong but have no tune, and learning ‘six times’ so you know it anywhere you begin,” sighed Lois. “Seems to me I earned as much as a dollar learning ‘six times.’”

“I am certain you did,” sympathized father.

“And you know,” went on Dorothy, “it wasn’t the just looking pleasant, it was the feeling pleasant.

“I always wanted Jeanie to curl my hair, and Mary can do it just as well, and Jeanie is often busy, so I was sure Mary pulled, and Mary was certain she did not intend to pull, and we were both troubled, until Jeanie said there was a tangle that I alone could untangle.

“Now I like Mary to curl my hair, and she is so kind and funny. We are going to keep on working, and Jeanie says we will have a big bank account by the end of another year.”

The pause that followed was a thoughtful one. It was broken by the doctor asking: “Has anyone heard Jeanie express any Christmas desires?”

“I asked her what she would like me to give her,” said Dorothy, “and she said, ‘I would like your undivided attention to your sewing about half an hour each day.’ She said, ‘that would be a gift worth having.’

“It’s very hard to sew; I seem to find so much to interest me somewhere else, when I should be sewing—birds and clouds out of the window—and fairy stories in the grate fire.”

“Rings always wants to play when it’s sewing time,” chuckled Lois, “and then my needle gets lost.[Pg 16] Seems to me Jeanie will have a Christmas present every day in the year.