o
hurt. I couldn't forgive Florence, and I told her plainly I could
never be a real friend to her again. Florence felt badly, because she
really did love me, and she asked me to forgive her, but it seemed as
if I couldn't. Well, Aunt Emmy, that was my Christmas gift to her ...
my forgiveness. I went down last night and just put my arms around her
and told her that I loved her as much as ever and wanted to be real
close friends again.

"I gave Aunt Mary her gift this morning. I told her I wasn't going to
Murraybridge, that I just meant to stay home with her. She was so
glad--and I'm glad, too, now that I've decided so."

"Your gifts have been real gifts, Clorinda," said Aunt Emmy.
"Something of you--the best of you--went into each of them."

Clorinda went out and brought her cornery armful in.

"I didn't forget you, Aunt Emmy," she said, as she unpinned the paper.

There was a rosebush--Clorinda's own pet rosebush--all snowed over
with fragrant blossoms.

Aunt Emmy loved flowers. She put her finger under one of the roses and
kissed it.

"It's as sweet as yourself, dear child," she said tenderly. "And it
will be a joy to me all through the lonely winter days. You've found
out the best meaning of Christmas giving, haven't you, dear?"

"Yes, thanks to you, Aunt Emmy," said Clorinda softly.

Cyrilla's Inspiration

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and all the boarders at Mrs.
Plunkett's were feeling dull and stupid, especially the Normal School
girls on the third floor, Cyrilla Blair and Carol Hart and Mary
Newton, who were known as The Trio, and shared the big front room
together.

They were sitting in that front room, scowling out at the weather. At
least, Carol and Mary were scowling. Cyrilla never scowled; she was
sitting curled up on her bed with her Greek grammar, and she smiled at
the rain and her grumbling chums as cheerfully as possible.

"For pity's sake, Cyrilla, put that grammar away," moaned Mary. "There
is something positively uncanny about a girl who can study Greek on
Saturday afternoons--at least, this early in the term."

"I'm not really studying," said Cyrilla, tossing the book away. "I'm
only pretending to. I'm really just as bored and lonesome as you are.
But what else is there to do? We can't stir outside the door; we've
nothing to read; we can't make candy since Mrs. Plunkett has forbidden
us to use the oil stove in our room; we'll probably quarrel all round
if we sit here in i