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Oh, we can be a play Santa Claus!" said Alice. "That will do just as well: won't it, mother?”

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Yes, just as well. Now, Bessie, run into the nursery and let Jane dress you. I am afraid that you will take cold."

Away ran the little girls to their nurse, and in a few moments their father and mother heard through the open door an earnest discussion as to which of their cherished treasures it was best to take to the children whom Santa

Claus had so entirely forgotten. Alice had at last succeeded in impressing upon Bessie's mind the truth, that these children had actually nothing to make Christmas a happy day to them, and she was now as anxious as Alice herself to do all she could for them; but held fast to the idea that hungry people ought to have plenty of cake and candy, and was quite indignant with Jane for suggesting that they might prefer meat and potatoes.

Breakfast that morning was not a very quiet meal. Alice and Bessie were full of plans for the relief of Maggie, and her brothers and sisters, and no persuasions could induce them to eat their breakfast first and discuss their many projects afterward.

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Alice," said Bessie. "We'll go to see them right after breakfast, and we'll take them the big box of candy Uncle John sent us, and some nuts and oranges. Jane says they will want roast potatoes, and such things, too; so we'll just put a basket with a few potatoes in the carriage, but we 'll tell them that they needn't eat one if they don't want to."

"But I want them to come here," said Alice. "I'd like to go to where they live, and bring them home with me. Jane says they haven't got clothes; but we could lend them some. I'll wear my old hat and cloak, and Maggie could have my best things, and you could let the smaller girl have something of yours. Couldn't you, Bessie ?"

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Oh, yes, that would be nice!

May we go, mother? I don't mind giving my clothes to that little girl, and it would be a lovely Christmas if we had them here. We'd give them lots of toys, and then they'd laugh, and be so glad, and that would make us glad-wouldn't it, father? May we go just as soon as Henry can bring the carriage?"

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"I have a better plan than that, Bessie," said her mother. I would not like to have you and Alice go to the place where these people live; but they can come here and spend their Christmas-day with you, and you shall give them any of your toys. But it will not be necessary for you to give away your own clothes; for you know that I have plenty of little dresses and other things for poor people who may need them. My plan is for Jane to go to see the children, and have them all nicely dressed, and then she can bring them home to you, and you shall take care of them all day long. Will that not be the best way ?"

"But then it will be so long before they come," said Bessie, rather dolefully. "Why, it takes Jane ever so long to wash and dress me in the morning, and there'll be six children to do."

"It will take some little time, dear, but that cannot be helped. While Jane is away you can be choosing out the things which you want to give them for their presents, and there are so many to provide for that you will have enough to do. I expect that you will have to come to mother for some help, with so many to take care of."

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Oh, no; Bessie, let's do it all ourselves," said Alice. "We've got plenty of things for six children, and it would be such fun to give them their whole Christmas. Mother, please don't help us: will you?"

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"No, not if you like best to do it alone; but six children

is a large family to provide for, Alice."

Oh, I'll tell you, Alice!" exclaimed Bessie.

"We'll

play we were two big ladies, making a Christmas for some poor people. Don't you like that?" she added, rather hesitatingly, for her little sister's face had not caught the light of her own.

I don't think that would be such good way, Bessie. I feel about that as I do about running past the lame boy who lives next door. I always walk very slow when I see him, because I'm afraid he'd feel bad if he saw me run and jump, and knew he couldn't do anything but just limp along so slowly. And I'm afraid the little girls would feel as if it wasn't quite play. I think it would be better to play that we are all poor, and that a good lady had given us a lot of things, and told us to give some to them. Would that do?"

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Yes, and mother could be the good lady.

That would

be nice, 'cause then she would be in the play, and then she wouldn't be lonesome. I wouldn't like to have the dear mother lonesome," she said, slipping her hand into Mrs. Graham's as she spoke.

"You'll take good care of me, won't you?" said her mother, bending to kiss her. "And now you had better run upstairs and look over your

stores of playthings, while I send Jane to attend to the children."

They found the task of suiting the different tastes of a whole family quite a serious undertaking, and more than once the mother was called in to decide whether Maggie would be best pleased with a toy or a book; whether Mary's doll should be dressed in blue or in pink; and whether Amy's preference would be for a woolly dog or a waggon.

The last important question had just been decided when, to Bessie's great surprise, there was a knock at the door, and Jane's voice said, "I have brought the children, Mrs. Graham. They are downstairs."

CHAPTER VIII.

MAGGIE'S CHRISTMAS.

THE nursery of Mrs. Graham's house was as bright and pleasant as a room could well be made. The soft green carpet was strewed over with roses and lilies, and the walls were covered with paper, on which plump little cherubs were festooning garlands of flowers; while pictures of rosycheeked children smiled down from their places on the wall, and a large engraving of our Saviour blessing the little ones hung over the mantlepiece, the gentle face of the Master looking as if He were again about to speak those tender words, "Suffer the little children to come unto

me."

The nursery was not generally a very quiet room, echoing as it did the ring of childish laughter, the sound of dancing feet, and the merry prattle of happy hearts. But just now it was very still. The soft eyes of the pictures looked in vain for their usual companions, gazing with a steady watchfulness, as if longing for the return of their friends. By-and-by there came the sound of the patter of little feet, and the next moment the watchful eyes rested on a scene such as they had never witnessed since they had first looked down from those walls.

In the doorway stood Alice, supporting, with her arm around her waist, a girl who had just been placed upon her feet by William, in whose strong arms she had been carried upstairs.

"What is the matter?" asked Alice, surprised by her visitor's sudden pause upon the door-sill. "Can't you walk? Shall I call William back?"

"No, I can walk," said Maggie, for it was she who had

leaned upon Alice. "But this is so beautiful. Do you step on those lovely flowers?"

"Oh, yes! it won't hurt them at all," said Alice.

“But don't the paint come off?"

'Why, no,” exclaimed Bessie, who was following close behind with the four younger children, the baby having been left in the care of the woman who was tending the mother. “Just look here." She ran past Alice and Maggie into the nursery, and standing before them, rubbed her foot briskly back and forth upon the carpet.

"Look at that," she said, hopping backward upon one foot, while she held up the other, turning the sole upward for Maggie's inspection: "don't you see, it's just as brown and ugly as ever ? Those colours won't come out."

Thus reassured, Maggie ventured to proceed, very carefully however, and Alice led her to a couch and made her lie down upon it.

"You are so pale and tired," said Alice, looking pityingly down upon the thin face.

"Oh, I don't mind," replied Maggie, cheerfully; "it's so nice to rest. I never had such a good rest in all my life;" and she laid her head back upon the pillow with a look of perfect content and enjoyment, which Alice, who had never known what it was to ache in every limb with utter weariness, could not appreciate.

She stood watching her for a moment, and then turned to her other visitors. Bessie was already playing Santa Claus, and the children were standing around her, quietly receiving the gifts she showered down upon them, too much surprised to make the smallest response. They had been from the first rather bewildered by her vigorous attentions. She had burst upon them with such a torrent of questions, had given them such an amount of information, had pressed upon them such a variety of articles of food, and urged them so constantly to go the fire and warm themselves, that they stood around her, very close to each other,