“Come for a little run; I haven’t been out all day,” whispered Rosamond, slipping her hand into Betty’s as they left the table.

A great round moon swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge.

“Down the road a bit—­just a little way—­to the church,” suggested Betty.

They stepped out into the silent country road.

“Why, the little mission is as gay as—­as Christmas!  I wonder why?”

Betty glanced at the bright windows of the small plain church.  “Oh, some Christmas-eve doings,” she answered.

Some one stepped quickly out from the church door.

“Oh, Miss Vernon, I am relieved!  I had begun to fear you could not come.”

The girls saw it was the tall old rector, his white hair shining silver bright in the moonbeams.

“We’re just two girls from the school, sir,” said Rosamond.

“Dear, dear!” His voice was both impatient and distressed.  “I hoped you were my organist.  We are all ready for our Christmas-eve service, but we can do nothing without the music.”

“I can play the organ a little,” said Betty.  “I’d be glad to help.”

“You can?  My dear child, how fortunate!  But—­do you know the service?”

“Yes, sir, it’s my church.”

No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls.  Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly.

Betty’s fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far away; but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church, and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own.  In the dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright.  Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees.  Yet, somehow, she did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted and sheltered.  The voice of the old rector reached her faintly in pauses; habit led her along the service, and the star at the altar held her eyes.

Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain.  Tears stole softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart a sweet glow.  Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day, painted in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light.

“My dear child, I thank you very much!” The old rector held Betty’s hand in both his.  “I cannot have a Christmas morning service—­our people have too much to do to come then—­but I was especially anxious that our evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them, and your music has made it so.  You have given me great aid.  May your Christmas be a blessed one.”

“I was glad to play, sir.  Thank you!” answered Betty, simply.