A Little Peace-Maker 



A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS DAY 



By Eben E. Rexford 



M:\IS. MOOEE stood at the window 

 and looked out upon tlie landscape. 

 Yesterday the fields were brown, 

 and, in the little churchyard on the hill, 

 she could see a heap of dark earth that 

 stood ont sharply against the clump of 

 sturdy oaks, still holding tenaciously to 

 the foliage that Xovember's frost and 

 rain had turned to russet. Now it was a 

 beautiful white world, and the little grave 

 was hidden by the snow^ that had fallen 

 to make earth pure and fair for the birth- 

 day of the King. It was Christmas morn- 

 ing. 



"It don't seem much as it did las' Chris'- 

 mas," she thought, as she looked up the 

 hill. ''Then — she was here. Oh" — with 

 a sudden catching of the breath, as tears 

 came — "it's so lonesome without her. I 

 didn't s'pose I'd ever get to thinkin' so 

 much of a child as I did of her. It don't 

 seem 's ef I ever cared for my own so. 

 Seems to me I can hear her sayin', ']\Ierry 

 Chris'mas, grandma !' just as she said it 

 las' Chris'mas mornin', when she came 

 down stairs with her little night-gown 

 hel' up in front of her like a big pocket, 

 full of the things Santa had brought her." 

 And the woman broke down with her grief. 

 She laid her head upon the window-sill, 

 and cried. 



Presently Deacon Moore came into the 

 room. When his wife heard him coming 

 she wiped her eyes hastily with her apron, 

 but he saw the act, and the wet spot on 

 the sill where her tears had fallen told 

 the story. 



He took up the newspaper,, and pre- 

 tended to read, but his own eyes were so 

 blurred with tears that the words ran 

 together. 



By and by his wife spoke : "I 'most wish 

 we'd gone over to Brother Josiar's today, 

 as he wanted us to, or that we'd had some 



o' the folks come here. Someway, it don't 

 seem jest right to spend Chris'mas alone." 



"It don't seem like Chris'mas, that's a 

 fact," admitted the deacon. "I don't know 

 when we've b'en all alone on Chris'mas 

 afore. Mebbe some o' the neighbors'll 

 drop in bymeby." 



" 'Tain't likely," said his wife. "They're 

 all havin' comp'ny or goin' somewhere. 

 There ain't many folks alone as we be 

 today. There goes a load now," as a sleigh 

 went by to the merry music of jingling 

 bells. "Dear me ! I can't make it seem 

 right for fam'lies to be scattered so — Joe 

 in Dakoty, an' George in Texas, an' Em- 

 meline — in heaven ! But somehow she 

 seems nearest of 'em all," and Mrs. Moore 

 Aviped her eyes again. 



Just them a burst of childish laughter 

 rang out across the old garden that lay be- 

 tween the house and orchard. It came 

 so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that both 

 the deacon and his wife were startled. It 

 almost seemed as if the little girl of whom 

 they had been thinking had come back 

 to them. 



They looked out of the window in the 

 direction from which the sound had come, 

 and saw a child balancing herself on the 

 top rail of the orchard fence. The rail 

 rocked beneath her feet, and it seemed as 

 if she must fall, but, by skilful manage- 

 ment, she contrived to retain her position. 

 She was laughing at her exhibition of 

 dexterity, and made a charming picture, 

 with her rosy cheeks and shining eyes, 

 her yellow hair blowing all about her face 

 as it escaped from a little red hood bor- 

 dered with snowy fur. 



"I wonder whose child it is," said the 

 deacon. 



"I wouldn't wonder if it was the little 

 girl that's come to live with John Gra- 

 ham," answered Mrs. Moore. "I don't 



