And afterward, Elsie never called the potato it, but always "my child."

She found a fragment of calico, large enough for a dress and skirt, with
enough over, a queer, three-cornered piece, which she pinned about the
unequal shoulders for a shawl. Upon the bonnet she worked for days.

All this sewing was a great joy to her. Last of all, she begged a bit of
frayed muslin from the sweepings for a night-dress. Then she could
undress her baby every night.

She must have heard a tiny tuber-voice, for she said, "Now I can never
forget the sound of loving words, and the world is full of joy."

Elsie had a candle-box in her room, with the cover hung on hinges. It
served the double purpose of a trunk and a seat. She put her child's
clothes and the scrap of white paper in this box. In the daytime she let
her child sit upon the window-sill so she could see the blue sky; but
when the weather grew colder she took her down to the kitchen each
morning, lest she should suffer.

Sometimes, Miss Amanda watched her closely. "She does her work well, but
she is a queer thing. She makes me uneasy," she thought.

Christmas was coming. Elsie and her mother had always loved Christmas,
and had invariably given some gift to each other. After their stockings
were hung side by side, Christmas Eve, her mother would take her in her
lap and tell her the Christmas story. So now it was a great mercy for
Elsie that she had her child to work for.

One day, when she had scrubbed the pantry floor unusually clean, Miss