The graceful figure or Our Lady at once suggested the ethereal and celestial.  The long mantle, which fell in folds to her feet, signified her modesty and motherly protection; the meekly folded hands were a silent exhortation to humility and prayer; the tender, spiritual face invited confidence and love; the crown upon her brow proclaimed her sovereignty above all creatures and her incomparable dignity as Mother of God.

“And is this beautiful statue really ours—­just Larry’s and mine?” asked Abby.

“So the messenger says,” returned Mrs. Clayton.

“Who could have sent it, I wonder?” inquired Larry.

The Italian pointed to the card attached to the basket.  Abby took it off and read: 

“To my little friends, Abby and Larry Clayton, with the hope that, especially during this month, they will try every day to do some little thing to honor our Blessed Mother.

“FATHER DOMINIC.”

“From Father Dominic!” exclaimed the boy, in delight.

“How very good of him!” added Abby, gratefully.

Father Dominic—­generally so called because his musical Italian surname was a stumbling-block to our unwieldy English speech—­was a particular friend of Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, who appreciated his culture and refinement, and admired his noble character and devotion to his priestly duties.  He was an occasional visitor at their house, and took a great interest in the children.

“How nice of him to send us something we shall always have!” Abby ran on.  “Now I can give the tiny image in my room to some one who hasn’t any.”

“May we make an altar for our statue, mother?” asked Larry.

Although as a rule a lively, rollicking boy, when it came to anything connected with his prayers, he was unaffectedly and almost comically solemn about it.

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Clayton.  “And I think it would be a good plan also to frame the card and hang it on the front of the altar, so that you may not forget Father Dominic’s words:  ’Try every day to do some little thing to honor our Blessed Mother.’”

II.

“O mother!” cried Abby, the day after the arrival of the unique May-basket from Father Dominic, “now that we have such a lovely statue of the Blessed Virgin, don’t you think we ought to make a regular altary.”

“A what!” exclaimed Mrs. Clayton, at a loss to understand what her little daughter could possibly mean.  “I told you that you might have an altar, dear.  And you may arrange it whenever you please.”

“No, but an altary,” persisted Abby.  “The Tyrrells have an altary in their house, and I wish we could have one too.  Why, you must know what it is, mother,—­just a little room fitted up like a chapel; and the family say their prayers there night and morning, and at other times if they wish.”

“Oh, an oratory!” observed Mrs. Clayton, trying to repress a smile.