A Christmas Inspiration

       Table of Contents

      “Well, I really think Santa Claus has been very good to us all,” said Jean Lawrence, pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders.

      “So do I,” said Nellie Preston as well as she could with a mouthful of chocolates. “Those blessed home folks of mine seem to have divined by instinct the very things I most wanted.”

      It was the dusk of Christmas Eve and they were all in Jean Lawrence’s room at No. 16 Chestnut Terrace. No. 16 was a boardinghouse, and boardinghouses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spend Christmas, but Jean’s room, at least, was a pleasant spot, and all the girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other. Christmas came on Sunday that year and the Saturday evening mail at Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one.

      Jean had lighted the pink-globed lamp on her table and the mellow light fell over merry faces as the girls chatted about their gifts. On the table was a big white box heaped with roses that betokened a bit of Christmas extravagance on somebody’s part. Jean’s brother had sent them to her from Montreal, and all the girls were enjoying them in common.

      No. 16 Chestnut Terrace was overrun with girls generally. But just now only five were left; all the others had gone home for Christmas, but these five could not go and were bent on making the best of it.

      Belle and Olive Reynolds, who were sitting on the bed — Jean could never keep them off it — were High School girls; they were said to be always laughing, and even the fact that they could not go home for Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their spirits.

      Beth Hamilton, who was hovering over the roses, and Nellie Preston, who was eating candy, were art students, and their homes were too far away to visit. As for Jean Lawrence, she was an orphan, and had no home of her own. She worked on the staff of one of the big city newspapers and the other girls were a little in awe of her cleverness, but her nature was a “chummy” one and her room was a favourite rendezvous. Everybody liked frank, open-handed and hearted Jean.

      “It was so funny to see the postman when he came this evening,” said Olive. “He just bulged with parcels. They were sticking out in every direction.”

      “We all got our share of them,” said Jean with a sigh of content.

      “Even the cook got six — I counted.”

      “Miss Allen didn’t get a thing — not even a letter,” said Beth quickly. Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls didn’t.

      “I forgot Miss Allen. No, I don’t believe she did,” answered Jean thoughtfully as she twisted up her pretty hair. “How dismal it must be to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times. Ugh! I’m glad I have friends.”

      “I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and letters,” Beth went on. “I happened to look up once, and such an expression as was on her face, girls! It was pathetic and sad and envious all at once. It really made me feel bad — for five minutes,” she concluded honestly.

      “Hasn’t Miss Allen any friends at all?” asked Beth.

      “No, I don’t think she has,” answered Jean. “She has lived here for fourteen years, so Mrs. Pickrell says. Think of that, girls! Fourteen years at Chestnut Terrace! Is it any wonder that she is thin and dried-up and snappy?”

      “Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere,” said Beth. “Dear