Nanny, just
think she's been burned to death, and all because you and father sent me
to school last September. Oh, mother, mother, it's terrible. And then
the horse acting up like that. I--I--oh, Mr.--er--Mr. Boy Scout, do you
know anything about old Nanny--Nanny Haskell? She was my dear nurse.
Last Fall she left our house in St. Cloud because my father and mother
sent me to school down in Boston. She--she--oh, dear!--she said she
wouldn't live in St. Cloud without me, because she would be too
lonesome, so she came back to her old farm in the woods here, where she
hadn't been for ten years, and--now--oh, dear! oh, dear;--it burned
down--and--Nanny must have been burned to death."

"Why--why--no--no, she wasn't burned to death," said Bruce, when he fully
understood, "she--she--why she's over in the Woodbridge hospital. That
big building over there on Willow Street. We found her and took her
there, and she wasn't a bit hurt, only sick, that's all."

"What! is she alive--really--honest--Nanny Haskell--boy, you're sure?"
cried the woman excitedly. "We--we--came over to-day to get her and
bring her back to St. Cloud. We wanted to tell her that Genevieve had
come home from Boston to stay, and that we wanted her to come back with
us on Christmas Eve and live with us for good. Are you sure--?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. I helped bring her into town," said Bruce.

"Then come, mother, come. I must see old Nanny and cheer her up. The
boys will take care of the horse and put him in a stable. Won't you,
boys?" said Genevieve, excitedly.

"Sure--Bud will fix the reins and drive him to the hotel stable. Come
into my sleigh and I'll take you to the hospital," said Bruce.

A cold wind was driving powdery flakes out of the darkness overhead when
the Woodbridge town folk began to gather in the square to celebrate their
first community Christmas. The scouts were there early, for, besides the
fact that several of them had the task of taking care of the electric
switches that controlled the lights on the big tree, the rest of the
troop had been delegated to police the square.

The ceremonies were supposed to begin at eight o'clock, but by half-past
seven the big platform was filled with visitors, officials and prominent
townsmen. The orchestra had arrived, too, and taken its place, and the
chorus of four hundred school children stood waiting, song books in hand.
The big square was literally jammed by joyous men and women