But the best of all was the pleasure of the guests of the evening--Jack Harding and Jo Barton and David Chapin, who all came as Jim's guests--Louise Johnson's brother, a big awkward boy of sixteen--Eva Bicknell's mother, with her bent shoulders and rough hands, and other mothers more or less like her. The four boys helped when the cake and ice cream were served, and Jim whispered to Jo that he could have just as many helpings as he wanted--Miss Laura said so--and Jo wanted several. It was by no means a quiet occasion--there was plenty of noise and laughter, and fun, and Laura was in the heart of it all. They closed the evening with ten minutes of Christmas carols in which everybody joined, and then while the girls were getting on their wraps, the mothers crowded about Laura, and the things some of them said filled her heart with a great joy, for they told her how much the Camp Fire was doing for their girls--making them kinder and more helpful at home, keeping them off the streets, teaching them so many useful and pretty sorts of work. "My girl is so much happier, and more contented than she used to be," one said. "Mine, too," another added. "I can't be glad enough for the Camp Fire. Johnny's a Scout an' that's a mighty good thing, too, but for girls there's nothing like the Camp Fire." "Eva used to hate housework, but now she does it thinkin' about the beads she's getting, and she don't hardly ever fret over it," Mrs. Bicknell confided. "These things you are saying are the very best Christmas gift I could possibly have," Laura told them, with shining eyes. And the girls themselves, as they bade her good-night said words that added yet more to the full cup of her Christmas joy. "O, it pays, father--this work with my girls," she said, when all had gone, and they two sat together before the fire. "It has been such a beautiful, beautiful Christmas!" XIV LIZETTE The last night of December brought a heavy storm of sleety rain, with a bitter north wind. Laura, reading beside the fire, heard the doorbell ring, and presently Olga Priest appeared. The biting wind had whipped a fresh colour into her cheeks, and her eyes were clear and shining under her heavy brows. "You aren't afraid of bad weather, Olga," Laura said as she greeted the girl. "All weather is the same to me," Olga returned indifferently, but as she sat down Laura cried out, "Why, child, your feet are soaking wet! Surely you did not come without rubbers in such a storm!" "I forgot them. It's no matter," Olga said, drawing her wet feet under her skirts. "I'll be back in a moment," Laura replied, and left the room, returning with dry stockings and slippers. "Take off those wet things and heat your feet thoroughly--then put these on," she ordered in a tone that admitted of no refusal. With a frown, Olga obeyed. "But it's nonsense--I never mind wet feet," she grumbled.