etty to share her room-mate's bed, but both girls
were too tired and sleepy for any confidence.

"It's been the queerest Christmas!" thought Betty, as she drifted toward
sleep. "Why, I haven't given one single soul one single present!"

Yet she smiled, drowsily happy, and then the room seemed to fill with a
bright, warm light, and round the bed there danced a great Christmas
wreath, made up of the faces of the three O'Neills, and the thin old
rector, with his white hair, and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss
Thrasher and the homesick girls, and lonely Miss Hyle, and tear-dimmed
Hilma.

And all the faces smiled and nodded, and called, "Merry Christmas,
Betty, Merry Christmas!"

FOOTNOTE:

[M] This story was first published in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 82.

XIX

OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS

J. H. EWING

THE custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when
they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we
thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars
openly discuss whether the presents have been 'good,' or 'mean,' as
compared with other trees in former years. The first one that I ever saw
I believed to have come from Good Father Christmas himself; but little
boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement.
They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back
drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill--which I feel to this
day--when the folding doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of
tapers, mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one
what falls to his lot.

"Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a
Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture
of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother's picture-book.

"'What are those things on the tree?' I asked.

"'Candles,' said my father.

"'No, father, not the candles; the other things?'

"'Those are toys, my son.'

"'Are they ever taken off?'

"'Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand around
the tree.'

"Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice
murmured, 'How kind of Old Father Christmas!'

"By and by I asked, 'How old is Father Christmas?'

"My father laughed, and said, 'One thousand eight hundred and thirty
years, child,' which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one
thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the