"I thought you were an angel," she said to Clare. "I was rather frightened when I saw you, for I know that Dorothy is an angel now, and you are wearing her frock. Then I thought that if Dorothy had been changed into you, I ought not to be afraid, for you would love me as she did." "I came on purpose," replied the other child, with the most winsome face imaginable, and a little musical laugh. "I have no sister or mamma, and I have lost poor papa too, though I had not seen him for ever so long when they said he was gone and would not come back any more. So I came here to be your sister and to love you." "I see," said Margery. "Then you are not an angel, after all, and I remember that Dorothy never wore that frock when she was ill. She left it behind in the nursery wardrobe with mine when she went to heaven." The child could not bear to speak of her sister as dead, and it was far better so. Better that the loving heart should realize the great and glorious truth that our loved ones are not lost, only gone before, to be safe in the Lord's garner, until we too are gathered into the same eternal storehouse. "No," responded Clare, frankly; "I am just a little girl, and my real name is Clare Austin, not Dorothy. I do not want to be an angel for a long, long while—not till I am ever so old. I want to stay and play with you and be your sister. You will have me, will you not? Do not send me back." The beautiful child face lengthened at the possibility of such a thing, and the big violet eyes began to fill with tears. "Send you back! Oh no, no!" cried Margery. "You are Dorothy's Christmas gift. Nobody sends Christmas presents back, and besides, I love you now, and I will never part with you—never." Another long embrace followed this declaration on Margery's part, and Clare was content. Through all that day the children were inseparable. Side by side at meals, then rambling through the great house hand-in-hand, Margery acting as guide and the younger child taking in everything with delighted eyes, and making such quaint old-fashioned remarks about what she saw, that once more the walls echoed the sound of merry laughter. The soft white frock had been taken off, and, dressed alike in velvet and furs, the two raced along the terraces at mid-day, when the sun shone upon the frosted plants and made them glitter as if strewn with diamonds. Worshippers in Newthorpe Church that morning wondered at the sight of a sunny-haired child nestling beside their own "little lady," as Margery was generally called. But Mrs. Austin's face brightened as she glanced towards the pair, and in the churchyard she told Jane Gresham that she had followed her advice, and found a companion for Margery. "I believe it will be the means of saving my darling, for she took to the child at once. I have you to thank, Jane, and I shall never forget this."