Christmas came and went, and there were merry times in the parish school, and in Nannie's home, too. Her stocking was filled to overflowing by her mother and Pat, and there was a nice present from her kind teacher, too; but they did not have the tree until Epiphany, for that the minister said "was the Gentile Christmas, and he thought the good things and presents upon the tree would help the children to remember the great and glorious gifts that the Saviour's birth and manifestation brought to them all."

The little things could scarcely sit still during service in the church, but kept turning and twisting upon their seats and looking toward the chapel where the tree was. At last the moment came when they were to walk in procession around it, so as to have a good view of its beauty and promise before the articles were distributed.

The minister headed the procession with the parish children, and Nannie felt her importance materially increased as he took her hand and moved down the aisle. She had never seen any thing so pretty as the brilliant scene that had met her gaze when the doors were thrown open, and the illuminated star and bush appeared to her delighted gaze. "Oh!" thought she, "the parish school's the school for me;" and she gave little Sammy Flin, who had come in out of curiosity, an exultant glance as she passed the pew where he was perched up to get sight of what was going on about him. "She didn't believe they had such times any where else, or that the minister led them along before so many people, just as if they were his own children." She could not see how he yearned for them in his heart, feeling a greater anxiety and care for them, than he did for his own offspring that had never been so much exposed to the temptations and snares of the world. All she felt about it was that she was a poor little child, weak and ignorant, and that he was a priest of the great God, and taught the people from the blessed Book, and that it was a great honor for her to stand by his side when so many other children would covet the place. When Nannie Bates' name was called he handed her her presents—a nice pair of warm mittens, and a new hood, and a book, besides a turkey for her mother; and he spoke to her of the little dead Winnie whose body he had committed to the earth, and told her to be gentle and good that she might some time go to her; and Nannie went home happier than ever, and filled up the evening pleasantly with the glowing description of the day's pleasure. Pat sat with his ears distended, and his arms upon the table, leaning over toward her as she talked, and Mrs. Bates almost forgot the light that had so lately been extinguished in her dwelling as the bright face before her shone out in the pleasant room.

It needed only one more interested one to complete the little circle, but he was bounding over the waves, and no desire could recall him until the appointed time. He had now been gone one week, and they could not hope to see him until the opening of the summer, so they contented themselves with the enumeration of his goodness to them all, and with a fervent prayer for his safe return. The moon gleamed upon the bay as Mrs. Bates and Nannie looked from their windows upon the sparkling waves, and they almost fancied they could descry afar off the beaming face of their kind friend; but he lay heart-sick and home-sick in the berth of the tossing ship, thinking of his cosey room, and of the attic where so many pleasant moments had been spent, and wondering if Nannie and Pat would come to no harm while he was away.