A quiet, beautiful Christmas. My father was in the highest of spirits,
and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe. He went out
to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though
she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing,
the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to
read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the
child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn. I
read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it. She
loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the
herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.

She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other,
interested her so greatly.

I knew afterward.

It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow
and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint
perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.

I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had
been most loving to me. She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir
all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a
great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her. She looked
very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her
good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.
What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten
them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back
when I had reached the door to say good-night again--twice I went back
and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I