pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her head were hung
long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red berries.

Pete stole to the door and went in. Mrs. Hunt woke with a start, but at
sight of Pete smiled in her weary way. Pete made up his bundle of
clothes, and then pulled out the great red rose and the white flower. He
laid them on the table with--"Flowers fer little gal. Sick. Make her
think Crissmus. Good flowers. All color. No fade. No smell. No wear
out." Then, catching up his bundle, he slunk away without waiting for
Mrs. Hunt's thanks.

* * * * *

When Bill Gammon woke in the morning, he found the jug at the foot of
his bunk. But Pete was nowhere to be seen. He had left the jug and fled.

The Christmas celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many were
the curses showered upon Pete, and had that worthy been present, I doubt
if even the thought of the famous miracle would have sustained him in
the beating he would have received. But if Pete's conduct produced such
a sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's, the joy it caused at Jeff
Hunt's cabin made matters even. The glad Christmas sun, glad with the
promise of the "old, old story," came dancing and sparkling over the
trees, and looked down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin.
The first bright beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying.
They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling in the
evergreens. The children came and stood in wonder before the rude
flowers. How wonderful they were! Where could they have come from?

The face of the little girl was more patient than before. The eyes
seemed more tender, and yet not so sad. Perhaps the glad sun, the same
good sun that had looked upon that far-away tomb from which the stone
had rolled, whispered to her, as it played about her face, how soon the
stone would roll from her life; how soon she would forget all her care
and trouble, and enter the land of sunshine and flowers. It may be that
the good old Christmas sun even hunted out poor despised Pete, and told
him something of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it. Let us hope so
at any rate.

MY CHRISTMAS DINNER.

It was on the twentieth of December last that I received an invitation
from my friend, Mr. Phiggins, to dine with him in Mark Lane, on
Christmas Day. I had several reasons for declining this proposition. The
first was that Mr. P. makes it a rule, at all these festi