“I want to be made over new,” said Mrs. Murray sadly, “but oh, have I faith enough for such a great work?  I am too unworthy, too far away from Him to expect it.”

“Well, He is worthy.  Don’t you know good old Faber says: 

             “’Pining souls, come nearer Jesus;
               Come, but come not doubting thus: 
               Come with faith that trusts more freely
               His great tenderness for us.’”

And Mrs. Murray came.  The promise, “Ask and it shall be given you,” was verified to her.  When the sun of that Sabbath set, the dove of peace sang in the tired woman’s heart.  She had the secret of victory.  Her brow was almost as placid as Aunt Deborah’s.

Monday morning brought the usual work and bustle, “Mary,” said Aunt Deborah, “Satan is twice as active Monday morning as other days; perhaps he thinks we get the start of him on the Sabbath.  Forewarned is forearmed.  Here is my rule when provoked:  To shut my lips tight and lock them till a pleasant word feels like coming.”

“Yes, Aunt Deborah, Christ helping me, I shall make an entire revolution in this household.”  And she looked bright and courageous as she had not in years.

“To begin, then:  Go out of this kitchen and come when you are called,” said Aunt Deborah, briskly.

There was much work accomplished that day.  A valuable servant was soon secured and installed in the kitchen; then Mrs. Murray went in and out the stores.  No one in all the busy throng was more enthusiastic than she, as with joyful eagerness she selected some little gift for each, adding to her purchases a little stock of evergreens and flowers to brighten up with on the morrow, for this coming Christmas was to be no common one.  Aunt Deborah engaged in the business of tying and festooning evergreens with all the gusto of a girl; the two made the parlour into a bower of beauty.  When the short winter day drew to its close, the whole was pronounced complete, and Mrs. Murray went to her room to dress.  She was strongly tempted to put on the same old gray dress she had worn all winter, and brush her hair straight back as usual; but self and ease should not be consulted, so she shook out her still handsome locks and arranged them in the style her husband used to admire, in loose waves about her forehead; then she donned a neatly fitting black dress, with lace cuffs and collar, fastened with a bright ribbon.  When she went down to the parlour, Aunt Deborah looked over and then under her spectacles.

“Child,” she said, as she surveyed her, “it does matter how you look.”

Father, son, and daughters, all came in together to-night.

“Girls,” said Ralph, advancing first into the dining-room and getting a peep into the back parlour, “is this our house?  Everything is trimmed up, and there sits a lady by the fire.”

Wreaths festooned the archway between the parlours, there were vases of flowers, and hanging-baskets of trailing vines, and a canary in a gilded cage, a bright fire in the grate lighting it up cheerily; Aunt Deborah smiling and knitting on one side, “mother” on the other.  Florence rushed up to her, showering kisses upon her, while her father looked on with shining eyes.