or the
kiddies.

Wasn't that dear? I had little Francois thank them, and he did it so
well. Why is it that these small foreigners lack the self-consciousness
of our own boys and girls? He had been one of the wise men in the
spectacle, and he still wore his white beard and turban and his long blue
and red robes. Yet he wasn't in the least fussed; he simply made a bow,
said what he had to say, made another bow, with never a blush or a quaver
or giggle. His mother was there, and she was so happy--she is a widow,
and sews in the neighborhood, plain sewing, and they are very poor.

I rode home with the Bowers, and as we drove along, I heard the children
singing. I am sure they will never forget the night under the winter
stars, nor the scene in the stable with the cow and the little donkey and
the old ewe, and the Light that illumined the manger. I want them always
to remember, Uncle Rod, and I want to remember. It is only when I forget
that I lose faith and hope.

Blessed dear, good-night.

YOUR ANNE.

CHAPTER V

_In Which Peggy Takes the Center of the Stage._

THE bell on the schoolhouse had a challenging note. It seemed to call to
the distant hills, and the echo came back in answer. It was the voice of
civilization. "I am here that you may learn of other hills and of other
valleys, of men who have dreamed and of men who have discovered, of
nations which have conquered and of nations which have fallen into decay.
I am here that you may learn--_ding dong_--that you may learn, _ding
ding_--that you may learn--_ding dong ding_--of Life."

As she rang the bell, Anne had always a feeling of exhilaration. Its
message was clear to her. She hoped it would be clear to others. She
tried at least to make it clear to her children.

And now they came streaming over the countryside, big boys with their
little sisters beside them, big girls with their little brothers. Some on
sleds and some sliding. All rosy-cheeked with the coldness of the
morning.

As they filed in, Anne stood behind her desk. They had opening exercises,
and then the work of the day began.

It began scrappily. Nobody had his mind upon it. The children were much
excited over the events of the preceding night--over the play and the
feast which had followed.

Anne, too, was excited. On the way to school she had met Richard, and he
had joined her and had told her of his first patient.

"I had to walk at one o'clock in the morning. I must get a hors