To Sarah's surprise and delight, she had Miss Ellingwood almost entirely to herself the day of the play. Miss Ellingwood always prided herself upon the absence of the mad rush which is supposed to accompany and follow the dress rehearsal. She was especially anxious that this play should succeed, since it was the first appearance of her class.

The dress rehearsal had been given the night before. Sarah had watched it, entranced, from the edge of the stage, where she waited for possible errands. The Juniors paid no attention to her, but she was too interested to care. The extraordinary make-up of old Scrooge, the mysterious gliding about of the ghosts, the thrilling tableaux, directed by Miss Ellingwood from behind the scenes,—Sarah had never dreamed of anything like this. And it would be still more wonderful the next night, from the front, when strange green and purple lights were to follow the ghosts about, and when there would be the added excitement of a large audience. This would be a story to tell the twins! But could the twins be persuaded to believe such wonders? Sarah sighed a little. She was going home the day after the play, but it seemed weeks ahead.

Miss Ellingwood slipped into the chapel for a last look about before she started with Sarah for a walk. She glanced over the properties,—Scrooge's bowl of gruel, his candlestick, the chains and money-boxes which were to be rattled upon the approach of Jacob Marley's ghost, the crutch for Tiny Tim, the old clothes for Mrs. Dilber.

"It has all gone too smoothly," she said to Sarah. "There hasn't been a hitch anywhere."

"I should think that would be good," said Sarah.

Miss Ellingwood shook her head.

"No, when things go so well at the rehearsal they don't go so well afterwards, usually. At any rate, nobody will be tired."

"The ghosts went skating," said Sarah. "I saw them go off with their skates, and take the car."

Miss Ellingwood frowned.

"That was a little risky." Then she ran lightly down the steps. "But they'll be back. Come on." She was only a little older than the oldest pupil in her classes, and it was difficult to be always grave and dignified. Dr. Ellis watched her and smiled.

"I hope Miss Ellingwood's preparations are all made," he said to his secretary. "She's a fore-handed person."

The secretary looked up quizzically at the sky. He was inclined to be pessimistic.

"The leading members of the cast have gone out to the park to skate. They don't run the cars when it snows."

Dr. Ellis also walked to the window and looked out.

"Was Edward with them?"

"Yes."

"Then they'll be back. Edward knows all about the cars."

An hour later, Miss Ellingwood and Sarah returned, laughing and covered with snow. Miss Ellingwood glanced in at the office-door.

"Have the boys come?"

The secretary answered her.

"No. I shouldn't be surprised if they didn't get here."

Some of the color faded from Miss Ellingwood's rosy cheeks.

"But they must. What makes you say that?"

"The cars don't run in snows like this."

"But they could get a carriage and drive."

The secretary shook his head dolefully.

"There aren't many houses out there."

"But they could walk."

"Not ten miles in this snow. Not in time, anyway."

Miss Ellingwood spent the next hour looking out of the window. The cars from the park connected with the Normal School cars at the square. At the end of the hour, when darkness had fallen and no boys had appeared, Miss Ellingwood slipped into the dress which Sarah had laid out for her, and ran down to the office. It was still snowing heavily.

"They're not here?"

"No."

Miss Ellingwood went toward the telephone-booth. There was one way out of the difficulty.

"I am going to telephone to the car-barn and ask them to send out a car. It doesn't make any difference what it costs."

The secretary threw out a crumb of comfort.

"Dr. Ellis attended to that, a few minutes ago."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Miss Ellingwood, with a great rise of spirits. "Then they'll certainly be here."

She ate her supper with a good appetite, and then went up to the chapel.

Sarah dressed slowly. Ellen and Mabel, having seen the flurry which preceded other Junior plays, laughed scornfully. They did not like Miss Ellingwood.

"It'll be a failure," declared Mabel. "I could manage a play better." She looked impertinently at Sarah. "Now don't you go and tell her, Sarah."

Sarah did not answer. The walk had made her tired. She meant to go early to the chapel and take a book. Then she could get a good seat, and could study her extra history lesson until the play began.

She heard voices as she opened the chapel door. She thought at first that some one had mounted the stage for a final bit of practice, then she saw that it was Miss Ellingwood. Just in front of the stage stood Dr. Ellis.

"I've had a telephone message, Miss Ellingwood. They have tried to get a car out, but they say the snow is so soft and heavy that they can't get out and back before ten o'clock."

"Then my play is doomed!"

"Isn't there anything that can be done?"

The principal was much disturbed. He prided himself upon the prompt performance of all school exercises. In this case, his own son helped to cause the failure.

"Nothing," answered Miss Ellingwood helplessly. "They have the principal parts. They're the play."

"Couldn't any one take their places?"

"No, not possibly. All the Junior boys are in the tableaux, and anyhow, no one knows the lines. I could do it myself, but I have to direct behind the scenes. It is hopeless."

"We'll have to postpone it till after Christmas, I suppose?"

Miss Ellingwood sat down wearily on the nearest chair.

"Oh, I can't! All the spirit will have gone out of it. And it's a Christmas play!"

"Then we will have to give it up."

Miss Ellingwood looked at him dismally. Then her brows knitted. Could she take the parts? Could they manage the tableaux without her? It would make no difference whether the ghosts were men or women. Anything would be better than postponement.

"Perhaps," she began slowly. "No, it can't be done. I suppose a notice will have to be put up on the door, and if you will send Eugene for some of the boys, we will straighten up the stage. The case is hopeless."

It was at this moment that little Sarah Wenner appeared by the side of the tall principal. Her cheeks were flushed, she clasped her hands across the bosom of her red dress.

"Is it anything I can do?" she asked. "I know what the ghosts should say, and where they should stand always. You begin here, and then you wheel a little piece up there and—Ach, I know it all by heart. I heard them say it every evening when they practiced. You said—you said—"

But the impulsive courage which had prompted her speech had fled, her voice failed, and she stood abashed, her face growing scarlet.

It was several minutes before she dared to look up. She expected that Miss Ellingwood would reprove her sternly. She knew better than to interrupt older persons like that, but she had forgotten. She was always forgetting. In one awful moment of forgetfulness she had emptied a pitcher of water on Miss Ellingwood's head. Her presumption in offering overwhelmed her. They would think that she was crazy. If she could only get away, where she would not need to look up and see the frowns on their faces.

"Ach," she began, "I do not know what I am talking about. Sometimes I act so dumb. I—" She backed slowly away. "I—"

Suddenly Miss Ellingwood was at her side. She seized her arm, and held her for a moment without speaking.

"Wait a minute." Then she looked up at Dr. Ellis. "I believe—I believe it could be done. Come, Sarah."

Dr. Ellis followed them behind the scenes.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes. Postpone the ringing of the bell till a quarter after eight. And send all the Juniors here at once. Sarah, run up and get into your gymnasium suit, and bring two stiff petticoats and my long white wrapper, and tell Ethel and Gertrude to come as fast as they can. Go like a breeze, Sarah dear."

Sarah, in the character of Jacob Kalb pursuing the twins, never moved faster. Ethel and Gertrude, finishing their leisurely dressing, watched her fly down the hall, after she had summoned them.

"That wild youngster's in her gym suit, and has a lot of white stuff over her arm. What can she be up to?"

"Hard to tell. Let's hurry."

When they clambered up to the stage, having taken the short cut through the chapel, they stood still, gaping.

Miss Ellingwood's cheeks were red, her hair ruffled.

"Robert, you will have to read the part of Marley's ghost from behind the scenes. You'll have to speak as Edward did and move about. I'll help you. And Sarah knows the other parts. As the Ghost of Christmas Past,—here, Sarah, is your tunic and your golden belt." Miss Ellingwood held up a handful of white and gold, digged from the bottom of the property-box. "It's really better to have a girl for this part. Your hair must be down, there! and powdered, and you must make your voice as thin and clear as you can. As the Ghost of Christmas Present, you will sit here on this throne. We will have it turned this way, so that there can be a prompter behind it. And as the Ghost of Christmas Future, you will be in black. Ethel and Gertrude will help you dress, and there will be plenty of time. But oh, Sarah, are you sure you know the parts?"

Sarah looked round at the circle of astonished, doubting faces.

"Yes, ma'am," she declared solemnly. "Believe me, I do."

"Then get into your dress, quickly, and then you and Scrooge go over there and go over your parts. No, we'll do it here. If anybody comes into the chapel, and overhears, he'll just have to, that's all."

There were early comers, visitors from town, who did not know that the hour had been changed. They heard murmurs from behind the curtain, but they laughed and talked among themselves, and paid no heed.

The students did not appear until the bell rang. They were thankful for the last moment to finish a bit of packing or a visit. There were no study-hours,—this was one of the great occasions of the year. They did not know how narrowly they had missed having any play at all, or how its success still hung upon the slender thread of a small girl's memory.

The cheerless, unpleasant room upon which the curtain lifted gave no hint of the Christmas spirit which already excited the great school. Scrooge sat beside his table, unshaven, wizened, clad in an old dressing-gown and slippers, with a night-cap on his head. He was eating a bowl of gruel, and at the same time trying to identify the peculiar substance of which it was made, and also to keep the audience from suspecting that there was anything the matter with it. When he discovered that it was cotton, he made a resolve of revenge upon the Junior girls who had prepared it, which had nothing to do with the play. It helped him, however, to growl out maledictions upon the poor and those who relieved their distress.

It was then that he was disturbed by the clanking of chains and money-boxes, and the voice of his old partner, Marley, was heard faintly from behind the curtain which divided the front and back of the stage. Marley reproved him for his grasping, cruel spirit, his sordid struggle for wealth, and Scrooge cowered and listened in terror to the promise of the ghost that he should be visited by three others.

The curtain went down and rose almost immediately. There had been only faint applause. Scrooge had done his best, but the ghost, speaking from behind the scenes, had not the power to amuse and thrill which he would have had if he had been able to appear. Miss Ellingwood remembered, with a pang, Edward Ellis's delightful vanishing through the window.

Miss Ellingwood's face was pale. She realized that the first scene had fallen flat. And they were depending for the success of the second upon little Sarah Wenner, who had never even practiced with the rest of the cast! It had been madness in Sarah to offer, it had been worse than madness for Miss Ellingwood to accept.

She peered out from behind the scenes, her hand on Sarah's shoulder. Scrooge was in bed, his night-cap tassel nodded from his pillow. It was time for Sarah to go on. Directions trembled on Miss Ellingwood's lips, but she said nothing. It was too late now to advise.

The light was dim, and the audience could see nothing but the outlines of the old four-post bed, and a faint, tiny, white figure, which glided about, now slowly, now swiftly, once with a dash of yellow light upon it, once with a faint glow of purple. Her dress was short, her feet were sandaled, she looked even shorter than she was. The audience gasped. They thought that Edward Ellis was to play the part. Who was this sprite who moved about so lightly? They leaned forward breathlessly as the fairy thing approached Scrooge's bed, and drew the curtain back. A trembling, faltering voice issued from within.

"'Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold me?'"

It seemed to Miss Ellingwood that long moments passed before the answer came. The child had never been on any stage in all her life. Miss Ellingwood knew what stage fright was. She was suffering from it now herself. Then faintly but clearly came the answer:—

"'I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'"

"'Long past?' inquired the trembling Scrooge."

"'No, your past. Rise and come with me.'"

The lights went out, there was the sound of a great wind, then a wild cry which made the timid clutch one another's hands.

"'I am afraid! I am afraid! I shall fall.'"

The clear voice answered, "'Bear but a touch of my hand upon your heart, and you shall be upheld in more than this.'"

The curtain before the back of the stage was lifted, the light came on slowly. There, on the bench in an old-fashioned school-room, sat a small boy, tired, homesick, forlorn. To him entered a little girl, who threw her arms about his neck and told him that he was to come home. The little boy cried happily, and there was a strange echo from the front of the stage.

"'It is I!' cried Scrooge. 'I and my sister Fanny.'"

"'And here?' said the spirit."

The curtain fell and at once was lifted.

"'My old master Fezziwig!' laughed Scrooge."

The laugh died away at the next scene, when he saw once more the girl whom he had jilted because she was poor. A wild horror was in his voice.

"'Leave me, spirit! I cannot bear it!'"

The spirit in the white dress and with the streaming hair had already gone, and Scrooge felt his way across the room to bed.

When the curtain went up again, it was in a blaze of light. The bed-curtains were closely drawn, and sitting upon the green throne at the other end of the room was a little figure in a long green robe. Even now her schoolmates did not know her. She laughed merrily as she called to Scrooge, whose frightened face peered out from between the curtains. It brightened at sight of this cheerful ghost, but not for long. The Ghost of Christmas Present had sad sights to show.

The light faded, and though Christmas bells rang merrily, one could not hear them or enjoy them because of starved, wolfish children living in misery, and poor Cratchit and his family trying to make merry over their goose, while want stared them in the face. The audience sighed when the curtain fell once more and Scrooge wandered about his room alone.

By this time Miss Ellingwood had dropped her book and was devoting her whole attention to the tableaux. They were saddest of all now. Sarah was a tall figure without shape. Miss Ellingwood had contrived a support far above her head for the black robe. The stage was almost dark, and Scrooge had fallen upon his knees, as he watched the scenes of future Christmases.

Tiny Tim, the Cratchit cripple, had died from want of care, Scrooge himself lay in the churchyard, hideous Mrs. Dilber and her friends discussed his scant personal possessions, and the vast amount of his wealth went back into his business without ever having profited a human soul.

The audience caught the spirit of Scrooge's horror of himself, of his ecstatic joy at finding that he was still alive, and that there was time for him to redeem himself. They laughed and applauded, and there were those who cried. Then when the applause had died down, there was a loud call for the ghosts.

"It sounds like Edward," said Miss Ellingwood. "Run out and bow, Sarah."

Sarah clutched Miss Ellingwood's dress.

"Ach, I cannot!"

"Yes, dear, you must."

In a second she found herself in the middle of the stage. She saw the laughing, astonished faces, she saw Dr. Ellis applauding, she saw Professor Minturn smile, and back against the wall four tall boys, the real ghosts, who had come back at last. Near them, there stood some one else, a little taller than they, who waved his hand. It was William; he had come to take her home. Then her fright vanished. She was not Sarah any more. She was the Christmas Spirit, just as in the old days, when she played with the twins, she had been Jacob Kalb or Uncle Daniel or the Judge of the Orphans' Court by turns.

"Merry Christmas!" she cried, and then, like Tiny Tim, "'God bless us, every one!'"

Mr. Sattarlee was back of the scenes when she returned. He took both her hands in his. It was as though she had saved the day for him, instead of for Miss Ellingwood.

"Everybody is coming over to my rooms to have something to eat, Sarah, and of course we want you."

Sarah smiled at him.

"I thank myself, ach, I mean I am much obliged. But my brother is here, and—"

"We will have him too. We couldn't get along without either of you."

Ethel and Gertrude each held out a grateful hand. Even a tale-bearer must have her due.

"You saved the play, Miss Wenner."

Sarah's happy little smile died away.

"Ach, no, ma'am."

But she could not be long unhappy. Miss Ellingwood's hand would not let her go. When William came he only said, "Why, you little rascal!" which was praise enough. He talked and laughed with Miss Ellingwood and Mr. Sattarlee, and made friends with the boys, until he grew more wonderful than ever in the eyes of his little sister. She sat on the sofa beside Miss Ellingwood, and Edward Ellis and the other ghosts told them how they had walked home, despairing of getting there in time, but determined to do their best.

Ethel and Gertrude glanced at them, and Ethel shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"How do you suppose she ever did it?" said Gertrude.

A mocking smile came into Ethel's blue eyes. It was well for Sarah that she did not hear; it would have grieved her heart almost as much as it hurt generous Ethel's to say a thing so mean.

"Isn't it her usual occupation to listen and tell?" asked Ethel.