“Christmas!” said Charlie to himself with a bitter smile; what could that bring to him but more work, because of an extra train, and late hours and scanty fare, and not even time to run up to the “Home” and see little Nell? Didn’t he remember how it was last Christmas? As for Ralph Westwood he waited only to brush the snow from his clothes, and wash away the stains of soot from his hands, which must have been left when he shook hands with Charlie, then he sought a handsome library where a gentleman sat reading. Here he did not even wait to reply to the cordial “Good evening!” which greeted him, save as his polite bow was a reply, then he dashed into business. “Uncle Ralph! I have found your boy for you.” “Indeed! that is quick work! Where did you find him?” “I blundered on him; the very one. I didn’t know why I should have missed the five o’clock train, and he didn’t know why he should have to do overwork to-night. I hope we shall both have a glorious reason why it worked out before our eyes.” Then he drew a low chair in front of the lovely grate fire, and told his story. That was three weeks before Christmas. A great deal can be done in three weeks. Ralph Westwood and his Uncle Ralph did a great deal, and, at the end of the time, knew almost more about Charlie Watson than he knew of himself. The end of it all, or, more properly speaking, the beginning of it all, came to Charlie on Christmas eve: an invitation to Dr. Westwood’s elegant home, to meet seven boys, all of whom were in the Sabbath-school class which Charlie had just joined. I wish I had time to tell you about the dinner-table to which they all sat down. Roast turkey, of course, and cranberry sauce, and chicken-pie, and jellies and tarts, and all the elegancies of an elegant dinner, the like of which none of them had ever seen before. At each plate was a bouquet of roses. Think of roses at Christmas, for eight hard-working, homeless boys! Some people might think they didn’t like those roses with all their hearts; but some people don’t understand some boys. Slipped into each bouquet was a slip of paper which said on it “Merry Christmas!” in beautiful writing, and then followed wonderful things. One paper was a receipt for a year’s house rent, for one of the boys who lived with his mother, and had hard work to meet the landlord’s agent each month. Another had an order on a certain tailor for a full suit of clothes, such as it could be plainly seen he very much needed: every one had something. When Charlie Watson read his, he turned red and pale by turns, and stammered and trembled, and knew not what to say. It was longer than the others, and it took him some time to understand it all; but at last he made out that he was to enter the Fort Street Grammar School as a pupil, on the Tuesday after New Year’s, and that his home was to be at Dr. Westwood’s office, which he was expected to keep in order, in return for his board and clothes.