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B u s i n e s s December 1931 this older stranger, and she watched him constantly dur ing the exercises. She did not realize, however, his observa tion of her, as she sat by Lawrence. The children from Bald Heights rent the atmosphere with “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Their proud teacher sank beaming and breathless into a chair. Uncle Alan came forward, smiled modestly, and spoke. “Mrs. Sumner asked me to present the gifts to these children on this night of nights. But I have a distinguished -friend, who has unexpectedly arrived among us, and I have asked him to perform this agreeable task.” Without another word, he sat down and the older un known arose. Having adjusted his pince-nez upon a rather imperious nose, the presentation of gifts to the marching children began. Again and again Beatrice heard the gen tle resonance of a cultured voice, “In the name of the Christ-child receive this!” Something within her was stirring. A memory! Italy, and her own childhood, and a wonder-filled visit with her father among beautiful gardens full of jasmine and roses. There were marbles and a great house, too. “Come, come!” said Beatrice to herself, “In a moment I ’ll be singing ‘I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls, with slaves [or something] by my side!’ ” Perhaps this little soliloquy prepared her for what was to happen, for she was quite calm through all the ensuing drama. The orphans came at the end, and the pince-nez was especially kind to them. As the last one filed past, he looked straight at Beatrice and said, “There is an orphan here for whom I find no present. I have for her, however, a somewhat interesting remem brance. Will Miss Beatrice Guicciardi come forward!” In a daze, the girl did so. The
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Sumner drawing-room, ballroom, and library, not to men tion the lawns, nearly always available in the Pacific South west, were to be thrown open to a great collection of néedy ones, “Don’t sift them too carefully,” Althea’s father had said. “Some of the bad-boys and tomboy girls are the very ones we want.” Beatrice was putting on a very unusual attire. It had come in a mysterious box with a card written in a cramped foreign hand, requesting that she wear this. “This” was an exquisite satin tunic of rose color, with a girdle embroidered in strange old-world colors. The un derslip was of silver cloth. Over it went a mantle of striped silver tissue, brocaded with silver half moons. On it was pinned the request, “Wear nothing in your hair on Christ mas Eve.” While Elise, Pauline, and Little Sister exclaimed, Beatrice turned mutely to Uncle Alan, who was looking on with a strange half smile. He read her question. “I think you may safely wear them, Bee,” he said as he turned away to his study, marvelling greatly. So Beatrice arrayed herself in the wondrous vesture. She was not too curious about it. It was all part of her fairy tale come true. She was a lady in distress, and Law rence had come. She was a maiden of old Rome, who had become a Christian; and now, scorned by the patrician society that she had induced her young lover to abandon with her, she was hiding, and only venturing forth to a feast in Nero’s palace tonight, because her betrothed re quested it. “Nero’s palace” looked very Christmasy as Elise and she descended the stairs. Beatrice held close the little white velvet box that contained Lawrence’s ring for her. He was to put it on that night. Uncle Alan wished it so.
heavy and handsome one, whom the Lemon King’s daughter had been so sure was the “somebody,” come also at a gesture from his master. “The box, Giovanni,” said Be atrice’s friend. The box made every one gasp! All by itself, without what it con tained, the real crimson velvet of it, with its coat of arms embroidered long ago when hands were deft and patient, was striking enough. But its contents! A rare circlet of flashing gems to encircle the head rested upon a satin cushion! It was not quite a coronet, nor yet a hack neyed tiara, but such an ornament as women wore, perhaps, when Eu genie was a fair empress and the good Victoria, a girlish queen. In short, the flashing “little crown,” as the orphans instantly acclaimed it, was reminiscent of the Europe of romance, to those present who re membered. The children were speedily hushed. Beatrice’s friend began:
The merriment ran high. Christ mas carols filled the air. Even the Lemon King’s daughter Was pres ent, although she was suffering the aftermath of what had been a very painful permanent wave. And every one noticed the presence of two foreigners. “I am sure those men are Euro pean,” said the Lemon King’s daughter knowingly. “And isn’t it evident which one is the aristo crat!” She indicated a tall, rather handsome individual, with large, thick white hands. He had for his companion a wiry little man of fifty-five who had chewed an insignificant, long- suffering moustache almost into obscurity; and when he was not chewing his moustache, he was twirling a pince-nez with thin ner vous fingers. “Probably some major-domo of the other man,” reflected the Lemon King’s daughter, with a quiet assumption of sophistication. But Beatrice was drawn, in some utterly inexplicable way, to
Christ is Come Christ is come to be my Friend, Leading, loving to the end; Christ is come to be my King, Ordering, ruling everything. Christ is come! enough for me, Lonely though the pathway be. Christ is come to be thy Light Shining through the darkest night; He wUl make thy pilgrim way Shine unto the perfect day. Take the message! let it be Full of Christmas joy to thee! ■—F rances R idley H avergal .
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