h had also contributed something to this festival in the shape
of oranges and nuts, and had also given Pollie a few sprigs of holly
with which to deck their room.

Seated on a low chair, her lap filled with holly leaves and bright
berries, sat Nora, and her slender fingers were busy twining them into
little garlands to brighten up their poor abode. Very pale and fragile
looked the girl, almost too fragile to struggle with the world, but her
sweet face was happier than when last we saw her kneeling at her
mother's feet. It was as though the storm of life had buffeted her until
almost crushed, and having vented its utmost fury, had passed away,
leaving her at rest at last, but oh! so worn and weary with the strife.

Poor old Mrs. Flanagan! Every thought of her heart turned to Nora. When
her daughter was sometimes gay with a touch of the light-heartedness of
other days, the gaiety would find an echo with her, and she would strive
to be merry for that dear one's sake. And if, as was more frequently the
case, the girl was sad, the shadow rested on the mother also. She seemed
now but to live in the reflection of her daughter's life.

Even now, whilst busy with the morrow's good cheer, she would ever and
anon pause to glance at her child; and if the girl chanced to look up,
and met the mother's eyes with a smile, what intense joy spread over
that mother's careworn face, lighting it up with the sunshine of love.

Ah me! we can never fathom the depth of a mother's tenderness. Who in
the whole world cares for us as she does? Pitiful to our faults,
sorrowing with our griefs, rejoicing in our joys. Who so unselfish? who
so true? Happy the child who can _truthfully_ say, "Never has sin of
mine furrowed thy brow, or silvered thy hair, my darling."

But to return to our story.

Pollie, seated as before mentioned at Nora's feet, was intently watching
her (making very little progress, I fear, with stoning the raisins) as
she daintily threaded some berries to form a word, and many a merry
laugh was caused by the two children trying to guess what the word was
to be.

P was the letter first fixed on to the slip of cardboard, and which she
held up to them, smiling brightly.

"I know what it's to be!" cried Sally, who was becoming quite a scholar
now; "it's plum-pudding."

But Nora shook her head, saying--

"No, that is not the word I am going to make. Can you guess, Pollie?"

"I don't think I can," was the reply. "Is it"----