"Tell you, Retire Hopkins, it's the softest winter we 've had these twenty year. Anyways, it's pretty near as soft as any you ever see. Here 'tis 24th day of December and not a mite of snow".

"And no great frost to speak of. Farmer Love-well's got his chance this year. He 's always saying there aint no time to do fall work. Guess he 's had four months fallish weather this year, and no time he couldn't plow".

The worthies were seated round the stove in the store discussing the mild winter. Thankful Sloan sat in her little box of a post-office reading a Christmas number of some magazine she had cleverly pulled out of its wrapper.

"It's an old savin'," she piped up, "a green Christmas makes a rich graveyard".

She didn't say she had just read it, and it passed for native wisdom.

"Ef I didn't forget all bout it!" said the Deacon; "to-morrow is Christmas. We never made so great of those heathen holidays like hollowe'en and those sort o' days up to the meeting-house, but I do believe the schoolmarm's going to have some kind of a meeting. I see Sam'l Love well totin' a young saplin' spruce up there yesterday".

"Guess it's the fust Christmas tree ever was sot up in Black Ridge. Be your folks going ?"

"They's been invited, but I never favored such goin's on, anyways".

"S'pose you '11 be there, Deacon," piped up.

Thankful.

"Yes. I told mother I would - just to please her." "Guess the hull town will be there cept Rube Snow's folks. His gal's been ailin' these six months and yesterday she died. I suspect they '11 have the buryin' to-morrer for fear the ground might freeze up".

Christmas arrived at Black Ridge. It was a wonderful day - mild, bright and as beautiful as a Sunday morning in June. All the Ridge had heard of the Christmas tree at the 'Tater Hill school house. Every one knew also of the sorrow that dwelt in the stage-driver's little frame house on the back road. Thankful Sloan said it seemed *4 Sorter strange to have a funeral in the village and a "time" going on up to 'Tater Hill school bouse same evening." Retire Hopkins said "It wasn't intended to be unseemly".

"It just come that way, and he didn't see how the schoolmarm could give up the time she had planned for the boys and girls on account of Rube Snow's second girl being buried that day".

Sam'l Lovewell had seen the sun rise with mingled dread and hope. A second-hand window sash bought at the next village, four miles away, a few boards and nails, and natural gumption had done it. Over the white rose had been built a cold-frame. He had banked stable manure against it. He had watched it day and night. He had covered it at night with hay, he had aired it on sunny days. At last, on the day before Christmas, a single bud had shown the tips of white petals. I f to-day were sunny it might bloom. He went to look at it after doing his chores. It had not changed since the day before. Perhaps as the sun rose higher, and the tiny frame grew warm, the bud would swell into glorious beauty. Almost without knowing it Sam'l had become a florist.

About eleven o'clock, while Sam'l was in the barn doing up some odd jobs so that he might be free to go to the Christmas tree that evening, his mother came to the door and said that Rube Snow wanted to see him.

Sam'l came out of the house and found the stage driver peering through the glass of the little cold frame.

"I don't see, Sam'l, how you did it! I heard tell you was raising posies, but I didn't 'spect anything like that".

Sam'l lifted the old window sash.

The rose had bloomed.

The two men stood looking at the beautiful white bud in a kind of awesome wonder. To the older man it seemed little short of magic. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. To the younger man it was the crowning of all his labors. The Christmas rose had bloomed. He could give it to her - and he could ask that one favor, that one magnificent reward.

"My 'Manthy would have loved to see that. She 's to be buried to-day, and mother said I was to ask if you could give me that flower - just to put in her hand when we lay her away ?"

He managed to say this in some sort of broken fashion. Not in those words - yet Sam'l understood. Rube Snow wanted his rose - for his dead child's funeral. Sam'l knew it would be the only flower upon the little coffin. There were no other roses within a hundred miles - and it was Christmas day.

'Manthy Snow had never attended school since the new teacher came. Still, she was regarded as one of the pupils. It was not strange, therefore, that the schoolmarm should appear at the little frame house among the mourners. She wore a black dress and black kid gloves (the only pair in town) and the dark costume seemed to enhance her brilliant beauty. She seemed altogether of other form and being from the plain folks gathered in seemly silence 'round the door. The tall, gaunt men and heavy toil-worn women made way that she might pass into the darkened "fore room" where lay the child asleep. She bent over the quiet face as if to kiss it, and saw in the waxen fingers a white rose bud - the Christmas rose.

The minister read in a dreary voice, and then the mournful "Balerma" quavered on the air of the darkened house. It seemed all very sad, and yet there was in every heart a sense of gratitude and comfort. The child had gone home in peace with a Christmas rose in its hand.

The schoolmarm walked along the dry grey road under the bare trees outlined against the intense blue of the Christmas sky. She had just left the little procession winding up the hills towards the old graveyard on the mountain side. It was put there for safety against the Indians in the old days. Presently she heard a quick step on the brown leaves along the roadside. It was Samuel.

"I meant to have given it to you".

"Yes, Samuel, I know it. You have given it to me in giving it to her".

He walked on in silence for some moments and then he stammered out:

"You said you would give me something - if I brought you the rose".

•• Did I ? Well, I'd forgotten. What shall it be - a book ?"

Samuel never asked her. He could not - not then. She never knew what he would ask. Nor does any man or woman. It was locked up in the young man's heart. What did it matter? The Christmas rose had bloomed. It is character that counts after all!