without the music."

"I can play the organ a little," said Betty. "I'd be glad to help."

"You can? My dear child, how fortunate! But--do you know the service?"

"Yes, sir, it's my church."

No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the
choir stalls. Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir
loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly.

Betty's fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far
away; but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church,
and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own. In the
dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright.
Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter
wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees. Yet, somehow, she
did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas eve, far away from
home, but safe and comforted and sheltered. The voice of the old rector
reached her faintly in pauses; habit led her along the service, and the
star at the altar held her eyes.

Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole
softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart a sweet glow. Slowly the
Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day, painted
in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another
shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light.

"My dear child, I thank you very much!" The old rector held Betty's hand
in both his. "I cannot have a Christmas morning service--our people
have too much to do to come then--but I was especially anxious that our
evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them,
and your music has made it so. You have given me great aid. May your
Christmas be a blessed one."

"I was glad to play, sir. Thank you!" answered Betty, simply.

"Let's run!" she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back to school.

She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.

The next morning Betty dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin,
set out into the corridor.

Something swung against her hand as she opened the door. It was a great
bunch of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries, and hidden in
the leaves a card: "Betty, Merry Christmas," was all, but only one girl
wrote that dainty hand.

"A winter rose," whispered Betty, happily, and stuck the bunch into the
ribbon of her mandolin.

Down the corridor she ran until she faced a closed door