“It is the Christ-child, whose birthday we are celebrating.  I got the best I could find, for I like the idea better than old Santa Claus; though we may have him, too,” said Mamma, holding the little image so that both could see it well.

“It looks like a real baby;” and Jack touched the rosy foot with the tip of his finger, as if expecting a crow from the half-open lips.

“It reminds me of the saints in the chapel of the Sacred Heart in Montreal.  One little St. John looked like this, only he had a lamb instead of wings,” said Jill, stroking the flaxen hair, and wishing she dared ask for it to play with.

“He is the children’s saint to pray to, love, and imitate, for he never forgot them, but blessed and healed and taught them all his life.  This is only a poor image of the holiest baby ever born, but I hope it will keep his memory in your minds all day, because this is the day for good resolutions, happy thoughts, and humble prayers, as well as play and gifts and feasting.”

While she spoke, Mrs. Minot, touching the little figure as tenderly as if it were alive, had tied a broad white ribbon round it, and, handing it to Ralph, bade him fasten it to the hook above the tree-top, where it seemed to float as if the downy wings supported it.

Jack and Jill lay silently watching, with a sweet sort of soberness in their young faces, and for a moment the room was very still as all eyes looked up at the Blessed Child.  The sunshine seemed to grow more golden as it flickered on the little head, the flames glanced about the glittering tree as if trying to climb and kiss the baby feet, and, without, a chime of bells rang sweetly, calling people to hear again the lovely story of the life begun on Christmas Day.

Only a minute, but it did them good, and presently, when the pleasant work was over, and the workers gone, the boys to church, and Mamma to see about lunch for the invalids, Jack said, gravely, to Jill,—­

“I think we ought to be extra good, every one is so kind to us, and we are getting well, and going to have such capital times.  Don’t see how we can do anything else to show we are grateful.”

“It isn’t easy to be good when one is sick,” said Jill, thoughtfully.  “I fret dreadfully, I get so tired of being still.  I want to scream sometimes, but I don’t, because it would scare Mammy, so I cry.  Do you cry, Jack?”

“Men never do.  I want to tramp round when things bother me; but I can’t, so I kick and say, ‘Hang it!’ and when I get very bad I pitch into Frank, and he lets me.  I tell you, Jill, he’s a good brother!” and Jack privately resolved then and there to invite Frank to take it out of him in any form he pleased as soon as health would permit.

“I rather think we shall grow good in this pretty place, for I don’t see how we can be bad if we want to, it is all so nice and sort of pious here,” said Jill, with her eyes on the angel over the tree.