"Dear children." But the small creature left behind clutched the
floating hem of the white gown, and screamed harder than ever.

"Bless me!" ejaculated Mr. King in great distress. "Here, will somebody
take this child down where she belongs?" While Polly with flushed
cheeks, leaned over, and tried to unclasp the little black fingers.

"Go up there, Joe, and stop the row," said Livingston Bayley from the
visitor's seat at the end of the hall; "you started it."

Jack Loughead took a step or two in the direction of the platform, then
thought better of it, and got back into his place again, hoping no one
had noticed him in the confusion.

Phronsie leaned over as well as she could for the little hands pulling
her back. "Jasper," she begged, "do move the cricket so that she may sit
by me."

And before anybody quite knew how it was done, there was the new child
sitting on her cricket, and huddled up against the soft folds of
Phronsie's white gown, while Phronsie, standing close to the platform
edge, began again, "Dear children, you know this is Christmas Day--your
very own Christmas Day. And every Christmas Day since you came to the
Home, I have told you the story of the dear beautiful Lady; and every
single Christmas I am going to tell it to you again, so that you will
never, never forget her."

Here Phronsie turned, and pointed up to a large, full-length portrait of
Mrs. Chatterton hanging on the wall over the platform. It was painted in
her youth by a celebrated French artist, and represented a beautiful