“Who is he?” a woman asked, touching Aunt Betsy’s shoulder.

“Captain Ray, from New York,” was the answer, as Aunt Betsy gave to her dress a little broader sweep and smoothed the bow she had tried to tie beneath her chin just as Mattie Tubbs had tied it on the memorable opera night.

“Miss Helen Lennox.  A sugar heart, from one of her scholars,” the rector called again, the titters of the audience almost breaking into cheers as they began to suspect the relation sustained to Helen by the handsome young officer, going up the aisle after Helen’s heart and stopping to speak to good Aunt Betsy, who pulled his coat skirt as he passed her.

The tree by this time was nearly empty.  Every child had been remembered, save one, and that Billy, the organ boy, who, separated from his companions, stood near Helen, watching the tree wistfully, while shadows of hope and disappointment passed alternately over his face as one after another the presents were distributed and nothing came to him.

“There ain’t a darned thing on it for me,” he exclaimed at last, when boy nature could endure no longer, and Mark turned toward him just in time to see the gathering mist which but for the most heroic efforts would have merged into tears.

“Poor Billy,” Helen said, as she too heard his comment, “I fear he has been forgotten.  His teacher is absent and he so faithful at the organ too.”

Mark knew now who the boy was and after a hurried consultation with Helen, who knowing Billy well, suggested that money would probably be more acceptable than even skates or jackknives, neither of which were possible now, folded something in a bit of paper, on which he wrote a name and then sent it to the rector.

“Billy Brown, our faithful organ boy,” sounded through the church, and with a brightened face Billy went up the aisle and received the little package, ascertaining before he reached his standpoint near the door that he was the owner of a five-dollar bill, and mentally deciding to add both peanuts and molasses candy to the stock of apples he daily carried into the cars.

“You gin me this,” he said, nodding to Mark, “and you,” turning to Helen, “poked him up to it.”

“Well then, if I did,” Mark replied, laying his hand on the boy’s coarse hair, “if I did, you must take good care of Miss Lennox when I am gone.  I leave her in your charge.  She is to be my wife.”

“Gorry, I thought so,” and Bill’s cap went toward the plastering just as the last string of popcorn was given from the tree, and the exercises were about to close.

It was not in Aunt Betsy’s nature to keep her secret till this time, and simultaneously with Billy’s going up for his gift she whispered it to her neighbor, who whispered it to hers, until nearly all the audience knew of it, and kept their seats after the benediction was pronounced.