, where the wind wailed mournfully through
every open crack, a little girl sat sobbing as if her heart would
break. She hugged an old doll to her breast. The paint was gone from
its face; the yellow hair was in a tangle; its clothes hung in rags.
But she only hugged it closer. It was her doll. They had been friends
so long, shared hunger and hardship together, and now--

Her tears fell faster. One drop trembled upon the wan cheek of the
doll. The last sunbeam shot athwart it and made it glisten like a
priceless jewel. Its glory grew and filled the room. Gone were the
black walls, the darkness, and the cold. There was warmth and light
and joy. Merry voices and glad faces were all about. A flock of
children danced with gleeful shouts about a great Christmas tree in
the middle of the floor. Upon its branches hung drums and trumpets and
toys, and countless candles gleamed like beautiful stars. Farthest up,
at the very top, her doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if
appealing to be taken down and hugged. She knew it, knew the
mission-school that had seen her first and only real Christmas, knew
the gentle face of her teacher, and the writing on the wall she had
taught her to spell out: "In His name." His name, who, she had said,
was all little children's friend. Was He also her dolly's friend, and
would He know it among the strange people?

The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and
more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that
morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and
food and warmth, or she must go to the great hospital where papa had
gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid
the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture,
every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to
the pawnbroker. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring to
pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to
eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.

The little girl smothered a last sob and rose quickly. She wrapped the
doll in a threadbare shawl as well as she could, tiptoed to the door,
and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother
within. Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest
she wake her.

Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a
turn round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing th