s." It will be seen from this prayer that
the boundaries of Anne Douglas's faith were wide enough to include even
the unknown.

CHAPTER II.

"Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe."--WALTER SCOTT.

"Can you make out what the child means?" said Douglas, as his elder
daughter entered the study early on Christmas morning to renew the fire
and set the apartment in order for the day. As he spoke he held Tita's
epistle hopelessly before him, and scanned the zig-zag lines.

"She wants some ribbons for her hair," said Anne, making out the words
over his shoulder. "Poor little thing! she is so proud of her hair, and
all the other girls have bright ribbons. But I can not make ribbons,"
she added, regretfully, as though she found herself wanting in a needful
accomplishment. "Think of her faith in Santa Klaus, old as she is, and
her writing to ask him! But there is ribbon in the house, after all,"
she added, suddenly, her face brightening. "Miss Lois gave me some last
month; I had forgotten it. That will be the very thing for Tita; she has
not even seen it."

(But has she not, thou unsuspicious elder sister?)

"Do not rob yourself, child," said the father, wearily casting his eyes
over the slip of paper again. "What spelling! The English is bad, but
the French worse."

"That is because she has no French teacher, papa; and you know I do not
allow her to speak the island _patois_, lest it should corrupt the
little she knows."

"But she does speak it; she always talks _patois_ when she is alone with
me."

"Does she?" said Anne, in astonishment. "I had no idea of that. But
_you_ might correct her, papa."

"I can never correct her in any way," replied Douglas, gloomily; and
then Anne, seeing that he was on the threshold of one of his dark moods,
lighted his pipe, stirred the fire into a cheery blaze, and went out to
get a cup of coffee for him. For the Irish soldier's wife was already at
work in the kitchen, having been to mass in the cold gray dawn, down on
her two knees on the hard floor, repentant for all her sins, and
refulgently content in the absolution which wiped out the old score (and
left place for a new one). After taking in the coffee, Anne ran up to
her own room,