Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby’s life or death; and until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a Providence that seemed only cruel.  In her daily prayers this thought of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she rose from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears than comforted.  How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts!  Again, she would implore his loving care over her poor baby, wherever it might be.

So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since Edith’s child was born.

It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made light by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford.  All its chambers were silent.  And yet the coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated.  Edith’s heart was full of interest for the children of the poor, the lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came to save and to bless.  Her anniversary was to be spent with them, and she was looking forward to its advent with real pleasure.

“We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father.  “The dinner is to be at twelve o’clock, and we must be there by nine or ten.  We shall be busy enough getting everything ready.  There are forty turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill.”

“And many willing hands to do it,” remarked Edith, with a quiet smile; “ours among the rest.”

“You’d better keep away from there,” spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a jar in her voice.  “I don’t see what possesses you.  You can find poor little wretches anywhere, if you’re so fond of them, without going to Briar street.  You’ll bring home the small-pox or something worse.”

Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a silence on the group that was burdensome to all.  Mrs. Dinneford felt it most heavily, and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from the room.

“A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half starved,” said Edith as her mother shut the door.  “I shall enjoy the sight as much as they will enjoy the feast.”

A little after ten o’clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and Edith took their way to the mission-school in Briar street.  They found from fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and at work helping to arrange the tables, which were set in the two long upper rooms.  There were places for nearly four hundred children, and in front of each was an apple, a cake and a biscuit, and between every four a large mince pie.  The forty turkeys were at the baker’s, to be ready at a little before twelve o’clock, the dinner-hour, and in time for the carvers, who were to fill the four hundred plates for the expected guests.

At eleven o’clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on the first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning exercises, that were to continue for an hour.