ished friends; the church was gayly decorated with evergreens; the Star of Bethlehem shone on the eastern wall; the Sunday School children had sung an exquisite hymn, written for the occasion; our beloved pastor, in his holiest mood, had spoken words of promise and encouragement; had breathed upon us 'soft rebukes in blessings ended;' around him were hopefully happy faces, but amongst the cheerful crowd I missed one dear, familiar countenance. A father sat surrounded by his children, but their mother was absent. She was at home watching over a little daughter who was very ill. The family lived a short distance from the city, and after service I drove out to see the sick child. Among my Christmas presents was a basket made of moss and filled with green-house flowers,—camelias, heliotropes, orange blossoms, jasmines, roses, etc. The handle, too, was woven of flowers, embedded in moss. I thought the refreshing sight of the flowers might do little Clara good, so I stopped on the way for this lovely floral gift. At the door of Clara's home I was greeted by a host of little ones, and first they took me into the parlor, where stood a Christmas tree, so tall that it nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. The spreading branches were loaded with gifts, and waxen lights were scattered about amongst the smaller boughs. The children delightedly exhibited their abundant Christmas presents, and they led me up stairs to their mother's room. As they
