felt if it had clipped from your clasp and been dashed
to pieces?"

A few tears trickled down Abby's cheeks. Larry blinked hard and stared
at the wall.

"My dear children, that is not the way to honor our Blessed Mother,"
Mrs. Clayton went on to say. "Do you think that she looked down with
favor upon your work to-day? No. But if you had waited as I told
you,--if each of you had made a little altar for her in your heart and
offered to her the beautiful flowers of patience, and the votive lights
of loving obedience,--then indeed you would have won her blessing, and
she would have most graciously accepted the homage of such a shrine.
As it is, you see, you have very little, if anything, to offer her."

III.

For two or three days Mrs. Clayton suffered the oratory to remain as
the children had arranged it. They said their prayers there morning
and evening; and to Abby especially the ridges and patches in the
carpet, which now seemed to stare her out of countenance, the pink
vases, and the candelabra, were a constant reproach for her
disobedience. Larry, too, grew to hate the sight of them. He often
realized poignantly also that it is not well to be too easily
influenced by one's playmates; for if he happened to be late and ran
into the room and popped down on his knees in a hurry, he was almost
sure to start up again with an exclamation caused by the prick of one
of the numerous tacks which he had inadvertently left scattered over
the floor.

When the good mother thought that the admonition which she wished to
convey was sufficiently impressed, she had the carpet taken up,
repaired as much as possible, and properly laid. Then she hung soft
lace curtains at the window, draped the altar anew, took away the pink
vases, and put the finishing touches to the oratory. It was now a
lovely little retreat. Abby and Larry never tired of admiring it.
They went in and, out of the room many times during the day; and the
image of the Blessed Virgin, ever there to greet them, by its very
presence taught them sweet lessons of virtue. For who can look upon a
statue of Our Lady without being reminded of her motherly tenderness,
her purity and love; without finding, at least for a moment, his
thoughts borne upward, as the angels bore the body of the dead St.
Catherine, from amid the tumult of the world to the holy heights, the
very atmosphere of which is prayer and peace?

Whenever Abby felt cross or disagreeable, she hi