cheeked
girl now stood irresolutely looking at the condemned wreath.

The sun was setting, and poured a flood of clear yellow light through
the little west windows; the man at the organ was playing a sober,
steadfast German choral, without exultation, yet full of a resolute
purpose which defied even death and the grave. Out through the eastern
windows stretched the frozen straits, the snow-covered islands, and
below rang out the bugle. "It will be dark in a few moments," said Anne
to herself; "I will do it."

She moved the ladder across to the chancel, mounted to its top again,
and placed the wreath directly over the altar, connecting it deftly with
the numerous long lines of delicate wreathing woven in thread-like green
lace-work which hung there, waiting for their key-stone--a place of
honor which the condemned wreath was to fill. It now crowned the whole.
The little house of God was but an upper chamber, roughly finished and
barren; its only treasure was a small organ, a gift from a father whose
daughter, a stranger from the South, had died upon the island,
requesting that her memorial might be music rather than a cold stone.
William Douglas had superintended the unpacking and placing of this
gift, and loved it almost as though it had been his own child. Indeed,
it was a child, a musical child--one who comprehended his varying moods
when no one else did, not even Anne.

"It makes no difference now," said Anne, aloud, carrying the ladder
toward the door; "it is done and ended. Here is the ladder, Jones, and
please keep up the fires all night, unless you wish to see us frozen
stiff to-morrow."

A man in common soldier's uniform touched his cap and took the ladder.
Anne went back. "Now for one final look, father," she said, "and then
we must go home; the children will be waiting."

William Douglas played a few more soft strains, and turned round. "Well,
child," he said, stroking his thin gray beard with an irresolute motion
habitual with him, and looking at the small perspective of the chapel
with critical gaze, "so you have put Miss Lois's wreath up there?"

"Yes; it is the only thing she had time to make, and she took so much
pains with it I could not bear to have her disappointed. It will not be
much noticed."

"Yes, it will."

"I am sorry, then; but it can not be moved. And to tell the truth,
father, although I suppose you will laugh at me, _I_ think it looks
well."

"It looks better than anything else i