t a
full year since Miss Avis had gone. Last Christmas Eve she had sat
there, a sweet and saintly presence, in the inglenook, more, so it had
almost seemed, the centre of the home circle than the father and
mother; and now the December stars were shining over her grave, and
not one of that heedless group remembered her; not once was her name
spoken; even her old dog had forgotten her--he sat with his nose in
Margaret's lap, blinking with drowsy, aged contentment at the fire.

"Oh, I can't bear it!" whispered Nanny, under cover of the hearty
laughter which greeted a story Doctor Fritz had been telling. She
slipped out into the kitchen, put on her hood and cloak, and took
from a box under the table a little wreath of holly. She had made it
out of the bits left over from the decorations. Miss Avis had loved
holly; Miss Avis had loved every green, growing thing.

As Nanny opened the kitchen door something cold touched her hand, and
there stood the old dog, wagging his tail and looking up at her with
wistful eyes, mutely pleading to be taken, too.

"So you do remember her, Gyppy," said Nanny, patting his head. "Come
along then. We'll go together."

They slipped out into the night. It was quite dark, but it was not far
to the graveyard--just out through the evergreens and along a field
by-path and across the road. The old church was there, with its square
tower, and the white stones gleaming all around it. Nanny went
straight to a shadowy corner and knelt on the sere grasses while she
placed her holly wreath on Miss Avis's grave. The tears in her eyes
brimmed over.

"Oh, Miss Avis! Miss Avis!" she sobbed. "I miss you so--I miss you so!
It can't ever seem like Christmas to me without you. You were always
so sweet and kind to me. There ain't a day passes but I think of you
and all the things you used to say to me, and I try to be good like
you'd want me to be. But I hate them for forgetting you--yes, I do!
I'll never forget you, darling Miss Avis! I'd rather be here alone
with you in the dark than back there with them."

Nanny sat down by the grave. The old dog lay down by her side with his
forepaws on the turf and his eyes fixed on the tall white marble
shaft. It was too dark for Nanny to read the inscription but she knew
every word of it: "In loving remembrance of Avis Maywood, died January
20, 1902, aged 45." And underneath the lines of her own choosing:

"Say not good night, but in some brighter clime
Bid