at vesper service, remained with him, and out of
it grew the story.

And the story became very real indeed to Frances when one Sunday
afternoon her father took her to the very church where the boy used to
sing. It was such a pleasure to her that after this she and her mother
often went together, and Frances pretended that one of the choir boys,
who happened to have dark eyes and a high clear voice, was little Jack,
and there were certain hymns she loved to hear because he used to sing
them.

It was the Sunday after Christmas, and Emma had just come up to know if
she might go to church with Frances, when Gladys walked in, gorgeously
arrayed in velvet and silk. Though rather over-dressed she looked very
pretty, but as soon as she spoke it became evident that she was not in a
very good humor.

"I don't like Sunday," she asserted, with the air of wishing to shock
somebody.

Emma exclaimed, "Oh, Gladys!" and looked at Mrs. Morrison to see the
effect of this remark upon her; but apparently it hadn't any, for the
lady went on turning the leaves of the book she held, half smiling.

"I do; why don't you like it, Gladys?" asked Frances.

"You can't do anything you want to do, and everybody is cross or taking
a nap. Mamma has a headache, and she said I shouldn't come over here,
but I just told her I was coming. I knew she wouldn't care if I didn't
bother her."

"Your mother is pretty funny, Gladys," Frances observed.

"Suppose you go with us to service this afternoon and hear the Christmas
music; we can stop and ask your mother on the way," Mrs. Morrison
suggested.

"Do come, Gladys, it is lovely to hear the choir boys, and perhaps they
will sing 'O little town of Bethlehem,'" said Frances, adding, with a
nod to Emma, who knew the story, "That is one of them."

Gladys did not decline the invitation, but she did not seem
enthusiastic, and presently announced, "Emma says you ought to like to
go to church better than to the circus, or anywhere, to any
entertainment, but I don't."

"Oh!" exclaimed Frances, with a long-drawn breath, "I suppose you ought
to, but-- Mother, ought you to like church better than tableaux? Don't
you remember those beautiful ones we saw in North Carolina?"

Emma again looked at Mrs. Morrison, confident in the strength of her
position. "Oughtn't you?" she urged.

"Let me ask you a question. Which would you rather do, stay at home
to-morrow afternoon, or go to see 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"

"'