AT THE RICH MAN'S TABLE

True to her word, Aunt Amelia carried Marian's breakfast to her room. But for the interference of Uncle George his little niece would have been given bread and water; it was all an impertinent child deserved. Uncle George, however, insisted that the One who was born on Christmas Day was a friend to sinners great and small. Out of respect to His memory, Marian should have her breakfast. Lala offered to take the tray up-stairs when it was ready, but Aunt Amelia said it was her duty to take it herself: so there was no one to speak a word of comfort to the little black sheep outside the fold.

It had been a dark, cloudy morning, but curiously enough, the moment the door closed behind Aunt Amelia, the sun came out bright and warm, and shone straight through Marian's window. The child raised her head, wiped her eyes and finally sat up. She wouldn't eat any breakfast of course, how could she? No one loved her and what was the use of eating? The tray looked tempting though and the breakfast smelled good. The big orange seemed rolling toward her and Uncle George must have poured the cream on her oatmeal. No one else would have given her so much. The omelet was steaming, and even Lala never made finer looking rolls.

Marian moved a little nearer and a little nearer to the tray until the next thing she knew she was sitting in a chair, eating breakfast. Everything tasted good, and in a little while Marian felt better. Out of doors, the icy trees sparkled in the sunshine and all the world looked clean and new. Oh, how the little girl longed for a mother that Christmas morning. Some one who would love her and say "Dear little Marian," as Nanna once did.

Thinking of Mrs. Moore brought back to the child's memory that last day in the Home. Mrs. Moore had said, "Be brave, be good and never forget the Father in heaven." Marian had not been brave nor good; and she had forgotten the Father in heaven. Suddenly the child looked around the room, under the bed everywhere. She was certainly alone. It seemed strange to say one's prayers in the daytime, but Marian folded her hands and kneeling in the flood of sunshine beneath the window, confessed her sins. She felt like a new born soul after that. The despairing, rebellious little Marian was gone, and in her place was a child at peace with herself and the world. Without putting it in words, Marian forgave Aunt Amelia: more than that, she felt positively tender towards her. She would tell her she was sorry for her impertinence and promise to be a good child. It would be so easy to do right. She would set Ella a good example. Not for anything would Marian ever again do what was wrong. In time Uncle George and Aunt Amelia would love her dearly.

Marian smiled thoughtfully as she gazed down the straight and perfect path her little feet would travel from thenceforth forevermore. The child's meditations were interrupted by a remembrance of the potatoes. There they were, her Christmas presents, trying to hide under the bed, under the chairs, beneath the bureau. She stared at them but a moment when a happy smile broke over her face.

Marian was a saint no longer; only a little girl about to play a new game.

"Why, it's a circus!" she exclaimed, and straightway seizing the potatoes and breaking the switches into little sticks, she transformed the unwelcome gift into a circus parade. The elephant came first. His trunk was a trifle too stiff as the switches were not limber. The camel came next and if his humps were not exactly in the right place, he was all the more of a curiosity. Then followed the giraffe with sloping back and no head worth mentioning because there was nothing to stick on the piece of switch that formed his long neck. Marian did wish she had a bit of gum to use for a head. The giraffe would look more finished. The lion and the tiger were perfect. Marian could almost hear them roar. Nobody could have found any fault with the kangaroo except that he would fall on his front feet. The hippopotamus was a sight worth going to see. So was the rhinoceros. The zebras almost ran away, they were so natural.

Marian searched eagerly for more potatoes. A peck would have been none too many. "I'll have to play the rest of the animals are in cages," she said with a sigh. "Too bad I didn't get more potatoes. Wish I had the other stocking."

When Marian was tired of circus, she played concert. Bingen on the Rhine came in for its share of attention, but school songs were just as good and had ready-made tunes.

Lala in the kitchen, heard the operatic singing and laughed. Aunt Amelia caught a few strains, frowned and closed the hall doors. Uncle George smiled behind his newspaper: but Ella, tired of her toys, pouted and said she wished she could ever have any fun. Marian always had a good time. Mrs. St. Claire reminded her of the sleigh ride with the seven little girls in the afternoon and Ella managed to get through the morning somehow, even if it was dull and Christmas joy was nowhere in the house except in the little room off the back hall up-stairs.

At one o'clock Lala was sent to tell Marian she might come down to dinner if she would apologize to Aunt Amelia for her impertinence. Lala was forbidden to say more, but nobody thought to caution her not to laugh, and what did Lala do when she saw Marian playing the piano beside the circus parade, but laugh until the tears ran down her cheeks. Worst of all she waited on table with a broad smile on her face that made Aunt Amelia quite as uncomfortable as the mention of a pelican. Nor was it possible for Aunt Amelia to understand how a child who had been in disgrace all the forenoon, could be cheerful and ready to laugh on the slightest provocation. She thought it poor taste.

After dinner Ella thrust a repentant looking stocking in Marian's hand. "Papa says the things are yours and you must have them," she explained.

"What makes the stocking look so floppy?" asked Marian.

"Because," Ella went on, "papa made me take all the potatoes out and there wasn't much left. You've got a handkerchief in the stocking from me and one from mamma, and——"

"Please don't tell me," protested Marian. "I want to be s'prised."

"Like the selfish child you are," put in Aunt Amelia, "unwilling to give your cousin a bit of pleasure."

"And a box of dominoes from papa and a doll's tea set Lala gave you," finished Ella.

"She'll expect a doll next," observed Aunt Amelia.

"I did think Santa Claus would give me one," admitted the child, "but I had rather have the beautiful tea set. Help me set the table on this chair, Ella, and we'll play Christmas dinner. I'll let you pour the tea and——"

"Ella has no time to play," her mother interrupted. "Come, little one, help mamma finish packing the baskets of presents for the poor children."

"But I had rather play with Marian's tea set," pouted Ella.

"You have one of your own, dearest."

"It isn't as nice as Marian's, though, and I want to stay here and play."

"Now you see, George," and Mrs. St. Claire turned to her husband, "now you see why I cannot allow these children to play together. You can see for yourself what an influence Marian has over our little Ella. Come, darling, have you forgotten the sleigh ride? It is time to get ready."

"Me too?" questioned Marian, springing to her feet, "shall I get ready?"

The child knew her mistake in less than a minute, but forgetting the uselessness of protest, she begged so earnestly to be taken with the children Aunt Amelia called her saucy, and as a punishment, the Christmas gifts, tea set and all, were put on a high shelf out of sight.

Marian was allowed to stand in the parlor by the window to see the sleigh-load of noisy children drive away. When they were gone, the parlor seemed bigger than usual and strangely quiet. Uncle George, with a frown on his face, was reading in the sitting-room. He didn't look talkative and the clock ticked loud. Marian turned again to the parlor window. Across the street was the rich man's house, and in the front window of the rich man's house was a poor little girl looking out—a sad little girl with big eyes and a pale face. Marian waved her hand and the little girl waved hers—such a tiny, white hand. A new idea flashed into Marian's mind. She had often seen the little girl across the way and wondered why she never played with Ella. At last she thought she knew. The rich man's wife probably went to a hospital after the little girl, and took her home to get well just as Janey Clark was taken home, only Janey was never thin and delicate and Janey never stared quietly at everything as the little girl did who lived in the rich man's house.

Marian wondered why Aunt Amelia didn't leave her some of the presents in the baskets. Perhaps nobody loved the little girl: maybe her father and mother were dead and Santa Claus didn't know where to find her. Marian wished she had something to take to the poor thing. She would have given away her tea set that minute had it been within reach. Just then a long-legged horse went by, a horse that looked so queer it reminded Marian of her potato menagerie. The child smiled at the thought. Perhaps the little girl in the rich man's house never saw a potato animal and would like to see one. Perhaps she would like two or three for a Christmas present. Why not? It was all Marian had to give and the animals were funny enough to make any poor little girl laugh. Up-stairs Marian flew, returning with the elephant, the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus and two zebras packed in a pasteboard box.

"Please, Uncle George," she asked, "may I go and visit the poor little girl that lives in the rich man's house? I want to say 'Wish you a merry Christmas' to her, and——"

"Run along, child," interrupted Uncle George, the frown smoothing out as he spoke, "go where you will and have a good time if it is possible—bless your sunny face."

Uncle George had heard of the rich man's house and he smiled a broad smile of amusement as he watched Marian climb the steps and ring the bell. "What next?" he inquired as the door closed behind the child. In a short time he knew "What next." One of the rich man's servants came over with a note from the neighbor's wife, begging Uncle George to allow Marian to stay and help them enjoy their Christmas dinner at six. The permission was gladly given and at eight o'clock Marian came home hugging an immense wax doll and fairly bubbling over with excitement.

"I never had such a good time at the table in my life," she began, "as I did at the rich man's house. They asked me to talk, just think of it—asked me to, and I did and they did and we all laughed. And the poor little girl isn't poor, only just sick and she belongs to the folks. The rich man is her father and her name is Dolly Russel and she was gladder to see me than she ever was to see anybody in her life and she wants me to come again, and——"

"And I suppose you told all you knew," snapped Aunt Amelia.

"Yes, most, 'specially at the table," admitted the child.