'but that must be the place for me.' So I went inside
and sat at the back against the wall where no one saw me.

"There was a pleasant looking man on the platform, dressed as he would
be dressed to go into the street, and he was telling the meaning of Palm
Sunday. It was when our Saviour was coming into Jerusalem riding on an
ass, the people following Him. But His followers all being poor, like
Himself, had nothing to give, so they tore the leaves from the palm
trees as He rode by and threw them in His path, their only offering. And
as I sat there and listened, and heard of the hard road that the poor
must tread, something broke in my heart and I leaned against the wall
and sobbed."

Hertha was deeply moved. "Where did that man preach, Kathleen?" she
asked.

"It was a long way from here, darling, and likely as not they've thrown
him out of his church by this time. He was too good to be let long to do
as he liked."

"Oh, Kathleen, Kathleen!"

"Well, well, I mustn't be making remarks like that on Christmas. Has
Billy told you the story yet, Hertha, of how his grandfather fought in
the German Revolution and made his escape from prison?"

Their visitor left early, and for a time they worked together in the
kitchen clearing away the things. This task done, Kathleen brought out
her Christmas cards and gifts and looked them over, commenting on this
or that friend or patient, while Hertha sat quietly by, her hands in her
lap. The day had brought her no remembrance save a gift from Kathleen.

"There's one thing I do love about you, Hertha," her friend said,
"you're not always fidgeting; you know how to rest."

"Yes. It's been a real vacation for me, these two days."

"Still it must be hard not to be home at playtime."

Hertha remained silent.

"I'm not asking questions, dearie," her friend went on. "It's for you to
talk or not, as you wish. But sometimes when we're by ourselves we want
to speak and yet we don't know how. If there's anything you'd feel like
saying, I'd keep it to myself. I know," looking closely at the young
girl, "you've heard nothing at all from home."

It was very quiet. As Hertha sat looking at her hands in her lap, she
heard the clock tick and smelled the fragrance of the geranium blossoms.
She was struggling with a desire to get up and, throwing her arms about
her friend's neck, tell her her whole story. Hating deception, fearing
that she could play her part but poorly, she wanted above everyt