8 ACORN peeped eagerly in gaily decorated shop windows. "Mother will have such a nice Christmas now," he murmured. How proud he felt as he did his Christmas shopping! He bought grapes for his sick mother, dainty slices of chicken, and some hot soup, and then hurried home as fast as he could run. His mother was asleep when he entered the poor shabby room he called home. A clean, neat woman with a gentle sad face sat sewing by the bed. She looked up with a gentle smile when Dick entered. "Well, Dick, back at last? Mother is having such a nice sleep," she said. In an instant Dick was kneeling beside her, telling his story. She arose as he finished. "Come, we must light the fire," she said. "How glad I am, Dick. You only had a crust in your cupboard, and mine is almost as bare." Mary Barton was the dearest, and it seemed the only, friend of Dick and his mother. It was she who cleaned their room, and cared for the sick woman as for a sister, and who, when their own cupboard was bare, so often helped them from her own scanty store. She prepared the meal while Dick made a fire in the grate, looking so happy over his work that the tears fell from Mary's eyes, and her heart sank. How could she tell him, dear trusting Dick, that his mother was dying would, perhaps, not live through the night and he was so happy, all unconscious of the fact that in the last few days his mother had grown much worse. "Dick," called a faint voice from the bed, and the next moment he was in his mother's arms. Mrs. Travers kissed her son fondly, and listened to his story with a smile. Her heart was too full for words as he finished, and tears were in her eyes. She could not mar his pleasure by telling him of the approaching sorrow. She was very weak and feeble, but endeavored to eat a few of the grapes he had carried to her side. The effort proved to be too much for her, and she sank into a fainting fit. It was then that the truth flashed across Dick's mind. He gave one glance into the face of Mary Barton, and the answer he read there was sufficient. He did not speak or cry, he only grew very white, and, when after an interval, his mother once more opened her eyes, he crept to her side, with his bunch of beautiful fragrant Christmas roses. Christmas morning dawned at last, and Mrs. Travers still slept. Dick knelt on the floor in front of the small fire, with his head buried in Mary Barton's lap, while convulsive sobs shook his whole frame. "Oh, Mary! my promise, I must keep my promise!" he sobbed. "The rector has trusted me, and now I have spent all the money. I shall be away all morning, and mother-" "Do not cry, laddie," said Mary, "the rector is a good man. You must just tell him all, and I hope we will soon be able to give him back ACORN 9 the five dollars; but indeed, dear, you must not leave your sick mother." But Dick still sobbed. "There is no one else to sing the solo, and I promised so faithfully to be there. Oh, dear, I must go. See, it is nearly ten o'clock now. If mother would only wake before I go!" But the quiet sleeper did not stir, and Dick arose to his feet. "Perhaps she will sleep until I come back; or or Mary do you think might she-" but Dick could not finish the question, and Mary shook her head sadly. "Alas, dear lad, she might pass away so but, Dick, must you really go?" Dick could hardly speak now. He hung over the still form of his mother, scarcely daring to kiss her pale cheek. "If she wakes, tell her I have kept my promise; she would wish it she always taught me so," he said; and, taking the white Christmas roses out of the water they stood in, Dick laid them on the pillow, beside the still whiter face, and, gently kissing the smooth brow, he stole across the room, to be pressed once more in Mary's arms before he hurried off for the church. The rector had waited five minutes for the boy, and was about to leave the vestry, pained and disappointed at the breach of trust; when the door was flung open and Dick rushed in breathless. There was no time for questions, but the rector himself helped the boy to put on a clean white suit. "My boy, I am very glad I trusted you," he whispered. Dick's eyes filled with tears, as he thought of the price he was paying for that trust. Then a long line of white robed figures came into the church. Dick was given a seat just opposite the rector's desk. Sir John looked around anxiously, satisfied himself that the boy was there, and after a series of nods and smiles, turned again to his organ, while Dick, after one glance down the beautifully decorated, well-filled church, turned his head and fixed his eyes on the tall vases, filled with the beautiful Christmas roses. He listened as in a dream to the pealing notes of the organ and the voices of the singers, but he took no part in the happy song, and the rector wondered at the troubled look in his beautiful eyes. Sir John listened in vain for his voice, but not until the boy next to him whispered, "Why don't you sing?" did Dick think what he had come for, and his face colored slightly. Sing! how could he sing that joyful hymn, when his mother lay dying perhaps dead? He clasped his hands convulsively, but he was honorable to the core. He was paid to sing, and he would, though the effort nearly choked him. He threw Continued on Page 27