"Dear heart," said Mr. Bird, pacing up and down the library
floor, "it is no use to shut our eyes to it any longer; Carol
will never be well again. It almost seems as if I could not bear
it when I think of that loveliest child doomed to lie there day
after day, and, what is still more, to suffer pain that we are
helpless to keep away from her. Merry Christmas, indeed; it
gets to be the saddest day in the year to me!" and poor Mr. Bird
sank into a chair by the table, and buried his face in his hands,
to keep his wife from seeing the tears that would come in spite
of all his efforts. "But, Donald, dear," said sweet Mrs. Bird,
with trembling voice, "Christmas day may not be so merry with us
as it used, but it is very happy, and that is better, and very
blessed, and that is better yet. I suffer chiefly for Carol's
sake, but I have almost given up being sorrowful for my own. I
am too happy in the child, and I see too clearly what she has
done for us and for our boys."

"That's true, bless her sweet heart," said Mr. Bird; "she has
been better than a daily sermon in the house ever since she was
born, and especially since she was taken ill."

"Yes, Donald and Paul and Hugh were three strong, willful,
boisterous boys, but you seldom see such tenderness, devotion,
thought for others and self-denial in lads of their years. A
quarrel or a hot word is almost unknown in this house. Why?
Carol would hear it, and it would distress her, she is so full of
love and goodness. The boys study with all their might and main.

Why? Partly, at least, because they like to teach Carol, and