child just brought to one
of the homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or three years
old. She would hover about it and ask it questions, and betray an eager
concern that caused a moment's surprise to those who noticed her. Often,
at such times, the pale face would grow warm with the flush of blood
sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her eyes would have a depth of
expression and a brightness that made her beauty seem the reflection of
some divine beatitude. Now and then it was observed that her manner
with these little waifs and cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the
street had in it an expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them
sadly, sometimes tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner
almost cheery, to go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved
and steps that were slow and heavy.

Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and
until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her
heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a
Providence that seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought
of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she rose
from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears than
comforted. How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he
would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts! Again, she would
implore his loving care over her poor baby, wherever it might be.

So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since Edith's
child was born.

It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made light
by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its chambers were
silent. And yet the coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated.
Edith's heart was full of interest for the children of the poor, the
lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came to save and to
bless. Her anniversary was to be spent with them, and she was looking
forward to its advent with real pleasure.

"We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father. "The
dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine or
ten. We shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are forty
turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill."

"And many willing hands to do it," remarked Edith, with a quiet smile;
"ours among the rest."

"You'd better keep away from there," spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a jar
in