"
"I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child?" and the old eyes peer
anxiously into the depths of the younger and smiling eyes raised to meet
her gaze.
"You spoke truly, my Mother. Never before have I known what real peace
and real happiness were. Never, did I dream that life on earth could be
as mine is, so happy that it seems to me a little foretaste of the joy
the angels must know in heaven. _Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit
humiles._"
A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING.
On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at the very end of a
narrow street lined on each side by a row of dwelling houses of the
poorer class, stood a tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode
of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl struggling up the
hillside. The tired eyes brightened and lagging steps quickened
involuntarily as she turned the corner and saw the welcoming light
streaming from the kitchen window.
It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and the street was deserted
save for the solitary figure hastening towards that beacon light of
home. Darkness and silence reigned in most of the houses she passed, and
she sighed as she said to herself:
"Poor mother! Still up and still at work. I wish she would not work so
hard; there is no need for it now."
Reaching the kitchen window, she stood for a moment to take note of the
little scene within.
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