Wrap yourself in a cozy blanket, grab a cup of hot cocoa, and join me for a touching journey with the littlest orphan and the Christ Baby. With a story that's bound to warm your heart, this bonus episode of Truth Track dives into Margaret E Sangster Jr's captivating Christmas tale. As we unfold the narrative, we experience an orphanage through the eyes of the littlest resident, whose curiosity and longing for familial connections are as moving as they are poignant.
We continue the adventure as we delve into the thoughts and feelings of our little protagonist. Through his innocent musings about gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and his longing for a brother, we explore the depth of his solitude. The unexpected bond between the little orphan and trustee Mrs. Benchley, who is grieving her own son, unravels a thought-provoking dialogue about life, loss, and longing.
Finally, we uncover a Christmas surprise that will leave you spellbound. The broken picture of the Christ baby becomes a catalyst for a heart-touching conversation between the orphan and Mrs. Benchley, leading to an unexpected twist. As the spirit of Christmas illuminates the darkest corners of the orphanage, a beacon of love, kindness, and understanding prevails. Join me as we unwrap this delightful Christmas gift of a story, reflecting the transformative power of compassion and empathy.
Wrap yourself in a cozy blanket, grab a cup of hot cocoa, and join me for a touching journey with the littlest orphan and the Christ Baby. With a story that's bound to warm your heart, this bonus episode of Truth Track dives into Margaret E Sangster Jr's captivating Christmas tale. As we unfold the narrative, we experience an orphanage through the eyes of the littlest resident, whose curiosity and longing for familial connections are as moving as they are poignant.
We continue the adventure as we delve into the thoughts and feelings of our little protagonist. Through his innocent musings about gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and his longing for a brother, we explore the depth of his solitude. The unexpected bond between the little orphan and trustee Mrs. Benchley, who is grieving her own son, unravels a thought-provoking dialogue about life, loss, and longing.
Finally, we uncover a Christmas surprise that will leave you spellbound. The broken picture of the Christ baby becomes a catalyst for a heart-touching conversation between the orphan and Mrs. Benchley, leading to an unexpected twist. As the spirit of Christmas illuminates the darkest corners of the orphanage, a beacon of love, kindness, and understanding prevails. Join me as we unwrap this delightful Christmas gift of a story, reflecting the transformative power of compassion and empathy.
Welcome to a special holiday bonus episode of Truth Track. Each Sunday from now until Christmas there will be a bonus episode. I will be reading some Christmas stories that I had posted last year before I launched Truth Track on a separate podcast. They were enjoyed by many people. I'm not going to be posting all of the stories we did last year, but the five or six that were the most well received based on the podcast analytics. So gather the family and enjoy this holiday story.
Speaker 1:The Littleest Orphan and the Christ Baby by Margaret E Sangster Jr. The littlest orphan gazed up into the face of the Christ baby, who hung in a gold frame and smiled above the mantle shelf. The mantle was dark, made of black mottled marble that suggested tombstones, and the long room, despite its row of neat white beds, gave an impression of darkness too. But the picture above the mantle sparkled and scintillated and threw off an aura of sheer happiness. Even the neat in memoriam card tacked to the wall directly under it could not detract from its joy. All of rosy babyhood, all of unspoiled laughter, all of the beginnings of life were in that picture, and the littlest orphan sensed it, even though he did not quite understand. The matron was coming down the room with many wreaths, perhaps a dozen of them braceletting her thin arm. The wreaths were just a trifle dusty. Their imitation, holly leaves, spoke plainatively of successive years of hard usage. But it was only two days before Christmas and the wreaths would not show up so badly under artificial light. The Board of Trustees coming for the entertainment on Christmas Eve never arrived until the early winter dusk had settled down and the wreaths could be laid away as soon as the holiday was passed.
Speaker 1:For another 12 months the littlest orphans staring up at the picture did not hear the matrons approaching footsteps. True, the matron wore rubber heels, but any other orphan in the whole asylum would have heard her. Only the littlest orphan with his thin, sensitive face and his curious fits of absorption could have ignored her coming. He started painfully as her sharp voice cut into the silence. John, she said in the frost that made such pretty lacework upon the window panes wrought havoc with her voice. John, what are you doing here? The littlest orphan answered after the manner of all small boy children. Nothing, he said. Standing before him, the matron, who was a large woman, seemed to tower. You are not telling the truth, john. She said. You have no right to be in the dormitory at this hour. Report to Miss Mace at once Miss Mace was the primary teacher and tell her that I said you were to write five extra pages in your copy book At once.
Speaker 1:With hanging head, the littlest orphan turned away. It seemed terribly unfair, although it was against the rules to spend any but sleeping hours in the dormitory, he was just learning to write and five pages meant a whole afternoon of cramped fingers and tired eyes. But how could he explain to this grim woman that the Christ baby fascinated him, charmed him and comforted him? How could he explain that the Christ baby's wide eyes had a way of glancing down, almost with understanding, into his own? How could he tell with the few weak words of his vocabulary that he loved the Christ baby, whose smile was so tenderly sweet that he spent much of his time standing as he stood now in the shadow of that smile? He trudged away with never a word Down the length of the room, his clumsy shoes making a feeble clatter on the bareboards of the floor. When he was almost at the door, the matron called after him. Don't drag your feet, john, she commanded him, and so he walked the rest of the way on tiptoe and closed the door very softly after him.
Speaker 1:The halls were already decorated with long streamers of red and green crepe paper that looped along in a half-hearted fashion from picture to picture. The stair railing was wound with more of the paper and the schoolroom where Miss May sat stiffly behind the broad desk was vaguely brightened by red cloth poinsettias set here and there at random, but the color of them was not reflected in the littlest orphan's heart as he delivered his message and received in return a battered copybook. As he sat at his desk writing laboriously about the cat who ate, the rat and the dog who ran after the cat, he could hear the other orphans playing outside in the courtyard. Always they played from 4 o'clock, when school was over, until 5.30, which was supper time. It was a rule to play from 4 until 5.30. They were running and shouting together, but in a stilted way. The littlest orphan did not envy them much. They were all older and stronger than he and their games were sometimes hard to enjoy.
Speaker 1:He had been the last baby taken before a new ruling making six years. The minimum entrance age had gone through and he was only five years old now. Perhaps it was his very littleness that made the matron more intolerant of him. He presented to her a problem that could not be met in a mass way. His clothing had to be several sizes smaller than the other clothing, his lessons less advanced, and so on. Drarily he wrote and listened between sentences to the scratching pen of Miss Mace. The dog had caught the cat and now the man beat the dog, and then it was time to start all over again, back at the place where the cat ate the rat. Two pages, three pages, four pages.
Speaker 1:Surreptitiously, the littlest orphan moved his fingers one by one and wondered that he was still able to move them. Then, working slowly, he finished the last page and handed the copybook back to the teacher. As she studied it, her face softened slightly. Why did the matron punish you, john, he asked, as if on impulse. As she made a correction in a sentence, the littlest orphan hesitated for a second. And then I shouldn't have been in the dormitory, he said slowly. And I was Again.
Speaker 1:Miss Mace asked a question. But what she queried, were you doing there? Why weren't you out playing with the other children? She didn't comment upon the fault, but the littlest orphan knew that she also thought the punishment rather severe. It isn't policy to criticize a superior's method of discipline. He answered her second question ravely I was looking at the Christ baby over the mantle, he said, as if to herself. Miss Mace spoke. You mean the picture Mrs Benchley gave in memory of her son? She murmured the pastel, and then why were you looking at it? She hesitated and the littlest orphan didn't know that she had almost said dear Stylia. The child spoke and wistfulness lay across his thin, small face, an unrealized wistfulness. He looked so… nice, said the littlest orphan gently, like he had a mother maybe.
Speaker 1:Supper that night was brief and after supper there were carols to practice in the assembly room. The littlest orphan, seated at the extreme end of the line, enjoyed the singing. The redheaded boy who fought so often in the courtyard had a high, thrilling soprano. Listening to him as he sang the solo parts made the littlest orphan forget a certain black eye and a nose that had once been swollen and bleeding made him forget lonely hours when he had lain uncomforted in his bed as a punishment for quarreling.
Speaker 1:The redheaded boy was singing something about gold and frankincense and myrrh. The littlest orphan told himself that they must be very beautiful things gold the Christbaby's frame was of gold, but frankincense and myrrh were unguessed names. Maybe they were flowers, real flowers that smelled pretty, not red cloth ones. He shut his eyes, singing automatically, and imagined what these flowers looked like, the color and shape of their petals and whether they grew on tall lily stalks or short pansy stems. And when the singing was over and he opened his eyes with a start and realized that the matron was speaking.
Speaker 1:Before you go to bed, she was saying I want you to understand that you must be on your good behavior until the trustees leave tomorrow evening. You must not make any disorder in the corridors or in the dormitories. They have been especially cleaned and dusted. You must pay strict attention to the singing. The trustees like to hear you sing. They will all be here. And Mrs Benchley, who has not visited us since her sunday, and if one of you misbehaves? She stopped abruptly, but her silence was crowded with meaning and many a child squirmed uncomfortably in his place. It was only after a moment that she spoke again. Good night, she said abruptly, and the orphans chorished back Good night, undressing carefully and swiftly, for the dormitory was cold and the lights were dim.
Speaker 1:The littlest orphan wondered about the trustees and in particular about Mrs Benchley who had lost her son. All trustees were ogres to asylum children, but the littlest orphan couldn't help feeling that Mrs Benchley was the least ogre-like of them all. Somehow she was a part of the Christ baby's picture and it was a part of her. If she were responsible for it, she could not be all bad. So, ruminating, the littlest orphan said his brief prayers and each child who forgot his prayers was punished severely and slid between the sheets into his bed.
Speaker 1:Some of the orphans made a big lump under their bed covers. The red-headed boy was stalky, and so were others. Some of them were almost fat, but the littlest orphan hardly made any lump at all. The sheet, the cotton blanket and the spread went over him with scarcely a ripple. Often the littlest orphan had wished that there might be another small boy who could share his bed. He took up such a tiny section of it. Another small boy would have made the bed seem warmer somehow and less lonely. Once two orphans had come to the asylum and they were brothers. They had shared things beds and desks and books. Maybe brothers were unusual gifts from a surprisingly blind providence, gifts that were granted only once in a hundred years, more rare even than mothers.
Speaker 1:Mothers the sound of the word had a strange effect upon the littlest orphan, even when he said it silently in his soul. It meant so much that he did not comprehend, so much for which he vaguely hungered. Mothers stood for warm arms and kisses and soft words. Mothers meant punishments too, but gentle punishment that did not really come from way inside. Often the littlest orphan had heard the rest talking stealthily about mothers. Some of them could actually remember having owned one, but the littlest orphan could not remember. He had arrived at the asylum as a baby, delicate and frail and too young for memories that would later come to bless him and to cause a strange, sharp set of hurt. When the rest spoke of bedtime stories and lullabies and sugar cookies, he listened, why died, and half incredulous, to their halting sentences.
Speaker 1:It was growing very cold in the dormitory and it was dark. Even the faint flicker of light had been taken away. The littlest orphan wiggled his toes under the cotton blanket and wished that sleep would come. Some nights it came quickly, but this night perhaps he was overtired and it was so cold. As a matter of habit his eyes searched through the dark for a place where the Christ baby hung. He could not distinguish even the dim outlines of the guilt frame. But he knew that the Christ baby was rosy and chubby and smiling, that his eyes were deeply blue and filled with cheer. Involuntarily, the littlest orphan stretched out his thin hands and dropped them back against the spread. All about him, the darkness lay like a smothering coat and the Christ baby, even though he smiled, was invisible. The other children were sleeping.
Speaker 1:All up and down the long room sounded their regular breathing, but the littlest orphan could not sleep. He wanted something that he was unable to define. He wanted it with such a burning intensity that the tears crowded into his eyes. He sat up abruptly in his bed, a small, shivering figure with quivering lips and a baby ache in his soul that had never really known boyhood. Loneliness, it swept about him, more disheartening than the cold, more enveloping than the darkness. There was no fear in him of the shadows in the corner of the creaking shutters and the narrow stair. Such fears are discouraged early in children who live by rule and routine. No, it was a feeling more poignant than fear, a feeling that clutched at him and squeezed his small body until it was dry and shaking and void of expression.
Speaker 1:Of all the sleeping dormitory, the littlest orphan was the only child who knew the ache of such loneliness. Even the little ones who had been torn away from family ties had, each one of them, something beautiful to keep preciously close. But the littlest orphan had nothing, nothing. The loneliness filled him with a strange impulse, an impulse that sent him sliding over the edge of his bed with small arms outflung. All at once he was crossing the floor on bare mouse, quiet feet, past the placidly sleeping children, past the row of lockers, past the table with its neat cloth and black bound impressive guestbook, past everything, until he stood a white spot in the blackness, directly under the mantle. The Christ baby hung above him and though the littlest orphan could not see, he felt that the blue eyes were looking down tenderly. All at once he wanted to touch the Christ baby, to hold him tight, to feel the sweetness and warmth of him. Tensely still moved by the curious impulse, he tiptoed back to where the table stood. Carefully he laid the guestbook on the floor. Carefully he removed the white cloth and then, staggering under the to him great weight, he carried the table noiselessly back with him.
Speaker 1:Though it was a really light small table, the Lilasdorffin breathed hard as he set it down. He had to rest panting for a moment before he could climb up on it. All over the room lay silence, broken only by the sleepy sounds of the children. The Lilasdorffin listened almost prayerfully as he clambered up on the table top and drew himself to an erect position. His small hands, groped along the mantle shelf, touched the lower edges of the golden frame, but the Christ baby was still out of reach.
Speaker 1:Feverishly obsessed with one idea, the Lilasdorffin raised himself on tiptoe. His hands gripped the chill marble of the mantle, tugging, twisting, all with the utmost quiet. He pulled himself up until he was kneeling on the mantle shelf, quivering with nervousness as well as the now intense cold. He finally stood erect and then, only then, he was able to feel the wire and the nail that held the Christ baby's frame against the wall. His numb fingers loosened the wire carefully and then, at last, the picture was in his arms. It was heavy, the picture, and hard, not soft and warm as he had somehow expected it to be, but it was the Christ baby. Nevertheless, holding it close, the Lilasdorffin fell to speculating upon the ways of getting down.
Speaker 1:Now that both of his hands were occupied, it would be hard to slide from the mantle to the table and from table to floor, with neither sound nor mishap. His eyes troubled his mouth, a wavering line in his pinched face. The Lilasdorffin crowded back against the wall. The darkness held. Now the vague menace of depth Destruction lurked on a single misstep. It had been a long way up, it would be even longer going down, and he now had the Christ baby as well as himself to care for Gingerly. He advanced one foot over the edge of the mantle and drew it back sharply. He almost screamed in sudden terror. It was as if the dark had reached out long, bony fingers to pull him from his place of safety. He wanted to raise his hands to his face, but he could not release his hold on the golden frame. All at once he realized that his hands were growing numb with the cold and that his feet were numb too.
Speaker 1:The minutes dragged by, somewhere a clock struck many times. The Lilasdorffin had never heard the clock strike so many times at night before he cowered back until it seemed to his scared small mind that he would sink into the wall. And then, as the clock ceased striking, he heard another sound, a sound that brought dread to his heart. It was a step in the hall, a heavy, firm step that, despite rubber heels, was now clearly recognizable. It would be the matron making her rounds of the building before she went to bed. As the steps came nearer along the hall, as light, soft and yellow seemed to grow in the place, it would be the lamp that she carried in her hand.
Speaker 1:The matron reached the door and peered in and then, with lamp held high, she entered the room and her swift glance swept the rows of white beds, each but one with his sleeping occupant, the Lilasdorffin on the mantle, clutched the Christbaby closer in his arms and waited. It seemed to him that his shivering must shake the room. He gritted his teeth convulsively as the matron's eyes found his tumbled empty bed. Hastily forgetting to be quiet, the woman crossed the room. She pulled back the spread, the blanket and then, as if drawn by a magnet, her eyes lifted, traveled across the room and found the small white figure that pressed back into the narrow space. Her voice was sharper even than her eyes when she spoke. John. She called abruptly and her anger made her forget to be quiet. What are you doing up there?
Speaker 1:Across the top of the Christ baby's guilt frame, the eyes of the littlest orphan stared into the eyes of the matron with something of a fascination that one sees in the eyes of a bird, charmed by a cat or a snake. In narrow white beds, all over the room, children were stirring, pulling themselves, erect, staring. One child snickered behind a sheltering hand. But the littlest orphan was conscious only of the matron. He waited for her to speak again In a moment. She did, john, she said, and her voice was burning and yet chill with rage you are a bad boy. Come down at once. His eyes blank with sheer fright, his arms clasping the picture close. The littlest orphan answered the tone of that voice With quivering lips. He advanced one foot then the other and stepped into the space that was the room below. He was conscious that some child screamed he himself did not utter a sound and that the matron started forward. And then he struck the table and rolled with it and the Christ baby's splintering picture into the darkness.
Speaker 1:The littlest orphan spent the next day in bed with an aching head and a wounded heart. The pain of his bruises did not make a great difference, neither did the threats of the matron penetrate his consciousness. Only the bare space over the mantle mattered, only the blur of blue and yellow and red upon the hearth where the pastel had struck. Only the knowledge that the Christ baby, the meaning of all light and happiness, was no more Troubled him. There was a pleasant stir about the asylum. An excited child creeping into the dormitory told the littlest orphan that one of the trustees had sent a tree and another one was donating ice cream and that there were going to be presents. But the littlest orphan did not even smile. His face was set and drawn. Dyer punishment waited for him after his hearths were healed and there would be no Christ baby to go to for comfort and cheer.
Speaker 1:When the punishment was over, the morning dragged on, miss Mace brought his luncheon of bread and milk and was as kind to him as she dared to be. Yet Miss Mace's have been made timorous by too forceful a world. Once during the early afternoon the matron came in to examine his bruised head, and once a maid came to rub the colored stain from the hearth, the littlest orphan caught his breath as he watched her. And then it began to grow dark and the children were brought upstairs to be washed and dressed in clean blouses for the entertainment. They had been warned not to talk with him, and they obeyed, for there were folks watching and listening, but even so, flickers of conversation excited small boy. Conversation drifted to the littlest orphan's waiting ears. Someone had said there was to be a Santa Claus in a red suit and a white beard. Perhaps it was true.
Speaker 1:The littlest orphan slid down under the covers and pulled the sheet high over his aching head. He didn't want the rest to know that he was crying. The face washing was accomplished swiftly, just as swiftly where the blouses adjusted to the last high string and button. And then the children filed downstairs and the littlest orphan was left alone again. He pulled himself up gingerly until he sat erect and buried his face in his hands.
Speaker 1:Suddenly, from downstairs came the sound of music, first the tiny piano and then the voices of the children as they sang Automatically. The littlest orphan joined in his voice quavering weakly through the empty place. He didn't want to sing. There was neither rhythm nor melody in his heart, but he had been taught to sing those songs and sing them he must. First there was old little town of Bethlehem, and then a carol, and then the one about gold and frankincense and myrrh Strange that the words did not mean flowers tonight. And then there was a hush. Perhaps it was a prayer, and then a burst of clapping and a jumble of glad cries. Perhaps that was the Santa Claus. In his trappings of white and scarlet, the littlest orphans, tears came like hot rain in his tired eyes. There was a sound in the hall, a rubber-heeled step upon the bare floor. The littlest orphan slid down again under the covers until only the bandage on the brow was at all visible. When the matron stooped over him, she could not even glimpse his eyes. With a vigorous hand, she jerked aside the covers, sick or no, she told him you've got to come downstairs. Mrs Benchley wants to see the boy who broke her son's memorial picture. I'll help you. With your clothes Trimbling violently, the littlest orphan allowed himself to be wedged into undies and a blouse and a pair of coarse dark trousers.
Speaker 1:He laced his shoes with fingers that shook, mingled with fear and weakness, and then he followed the matron out of the dormitory and through the long halls with their mocking festoons of green and red paper and into the assembly room where the lights were blinding and the Christmas tree was a blaze of glory. The trustee is sad. At one end of the room, the far end, they were a mass of dark colors blacks and browns and somber grays. Following in the wake of the matron, the Lewis Orphans stumbled toward them. Mrs Benchley, would she beat him in front of all the rest? Would she leap at him accusingly? From that dark mass he felt smaller than he had ever felt before and more inadequate.
Speaker 1:The children were beginning to sing again, but despite their singing, the matron spoke, not loudly as she did to the children, but with a curious deference. This is John, mrs Benchley, she said, the child who broke the picture, biting his lips so that he would not cry out. The littlest orphan stood in the vast shadow of the matron. He shut his eyes. Perhaps if this, mrs Benchley, meant to strike him, it would be best to have his eyes shut. And then suddenly a voice came, a voice so soft that somehow he could almost feel the velvet texture of it. Poor child, said the voice. He's frightened and ill too. Come here, john, I won't hurt you dear.
Speaker 1:Opening his eyes incredulously, the littlest orphan stared past the matron into the sort of face small children dream about Violet eyed and tender lined perhaps, and sad about the mouth, and wistful but so sweet. Graying hair with a bit of a wave in it, brushed back from a broad white brow and slim white reaching hands. The littlest orphan went forward without hesitation. Something about this lady was reminiscent of the Christ baby. As her white hand touched his, tightened on it, he looked up into her face with the ghost of a smile.
Speaker 1:The children had crowded almost informally on the other end of the room toward the tree. The dark mass of the trustees was dissolving, breaking up into fragments that followed the children. One of the trustees laughed aloud, not at all like an ogre. A sudden sense of gladness began, for no understandable reason, to steal across the littlest orphan's consciousness Rudely. The voice of the matron broke in upon it. I had warned the children, she said, not to disturb anything Last evening before they retired. John deliberately disobeyed and the picture is ruined in consequence. What do you think we had better do about it, mrs Benchley?
Speaker 1:For a moment the lady with the dream face did not speak. She was drawing the littlest orphan nearer until he touched the satin folds of her black gown and despite the matron's voice, he was not afraid. When, at last, she answered the matron, he did not flinch. I think she said gently that I'll ask you to leave us. I would like to talk with John alone. And as the matron walked stiffly away down the length of the room. She lifted the littlest orphan into her lap. I know she said and her voice was even gentler than it had been that you didn't mean to break the picture, did you, dear? Eagerly, the littlest orphan answered oh no, ma'am. He told her I didn't mean to break the Christ's baby.
Speaker 1:The woman's arms were about him. They tightened suddenly. You're so young, she said, you're such a might of a thing. I doubt if you could understand why I had the picture made, why I gave it to the home here to be hung in the dormitory. My little son was all I had after my husband died In his nursery. It was such a pretty room had a Christ child picture on the wall and my boy always loved the picture and so when he left her voice faltered. I had an artist copy it. I couldn't part with the original and I sent it to a place where there would be many small boys who could enjoy it, as my son had always. Her voice broke.
Speaker 1:The littlest orphan stared in surprise at the lady's face. Her violet eyes were misted like April blossoms, with a dew upon them. Her lips quivered. Could it be that she too was lonesome and afraid. His hand crept up until it touched her soft Cheek. I loved the Christ baby, he said simply. The lady looked at him With an effort. She drowned the quaver in her voice. I can't believe. She said at last that you destroyed the picture purposely. No matter what she, her glance rested upon the matron's stiff figure half a room away. May think John dear, did you mean to spoil the gift I gave in my small boy's name? Oh, I'm sure you didn't.
Speaker 1:All day long the littlest orphan had lived in fear and agony of soul. All day long he had known pain, physical pain and the pain of suspense. Suddenly he buried his face in the lady's neck. He had never known before that there was a place in lady's necks just made for tiny heads, and the tears came Choked by sobs. He spoke no, ma'am. He said I didn't mean to. It was only because I was cold and lonesome and the bed was big and all the rest was asleep and the Christ baby always looked so pink and glad and warm and I wanted to take him into my bed and cuddle close. He burrowed his head deeper into the neck so that I wouldn't be cold anymore or lonesome anymore.
Speaker 1:The lady's arms tightened about the littlest orphan's body until the pressure almost hurt. But it was a nice sort of hurt. It shocked her somehow to feel the thinness of that body and her tears fell quite unrestrained upon the littlest orphan's bandaged head. And then all at once she bent over and her lips pressed ever so tenderly upon the place where his cheek almost met her ear. Not to be cold, she whispered, more to herself than to the littlest orphan, or lonesome anymore. To have the nursery opened again in the sound of the tiny feet in the empty rooms, to have the Christ child smiling down upon a sleeping little boy, to kiss bruises away again. Not to be lonesome anymore or cold. Suddenly she tilted back. The littlest orphan's head was looking deep, deep into his bewildered eyes. John, she said and his name sounded so different when she said it how would you like to come away from here and live in my house with me? How would you like to be my boy?
Speaker 1:A silence had crept over the other end of the room. One of the trustees, who wore a clerical collar, had mounted the platform. He was reading from the Bible that visiting ministers read from on a Sunday. His voice rang resonant and rich as an organ tone through the room, for, unto us, a child is born. He read Unto us, a son is given. The littlest orphan, with a sigh of utter happiness, crowded closer into the arms that held him, and it was Christmas Eve, the end.