Christmas Eve! What memories revive at those two almost hallowed words!

We think upon the first Christmas Eve,-of the manger at Bethlehem, the Redeemer’s humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding His first worshippers to His poor abode,-and we recall in imagination that glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! Yes; those words, “Christmas Eve,” carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that does not echo the glad tidings, “On earth, peace, goodwill toward men.”

But on the Christmas Eve of which we speak the holy stars were shining above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of Bethlehem-on London, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the rich and gay, and in a district of which (Drury Lane) little star-light could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets.

Drury Lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to attract customers. There were butchers urging passers-by to purchase joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows of coloured ribbon in honour of Christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wishing every one the “Compliments of the season.” Bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck in a paper lantern.

I care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying poison for soul and body. Would to God our loved country could be free from its curse of drunkenness!

And yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. Jokes were bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings exchanged in honour of Christmas. Occasionally, it is true, a shivering creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy even a loaf of bread. The generality, however, had anticipated the coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep Christmas.

It was a relief to turn from the noisy din of Drury Lane up Russell Court, and thence to the quiet of Mrs. Turner’s room. Yes; there they were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep Christmas.

At the one end of the table, close to the candle (they could only afford one), sat Mrs. Turner and Lizzie, busily stitching away, anxious to do as much work as they possibly could, as it was intended to celebrate the next day as an entire rest and holiday. On the floor was Sally Grimes stoning some raisins into a basin for the plum-pudding, and by her side, at Nora’s feet, sat Pollie, helping her trusty friend in her important work.

Mrs. Flanagan was standing at the other end of the table, busily mixing the various ingredients requisite for this crowning dish of the unwonted feast, and there also was Mrs. Grimes (Sally’s mother) chopping up the seasoning for a goose, which Mrs. Flanagan’s employers had given her as a Christmas gift, and on which they were all to dine.

Mrs. Smith had also contributed something to this festival in the shape of oranges and nuts, and had also given Pollie a few sprigs of holly with which to deck their room.

Seated on a low chair, her lap filled with holly leaves and bright berries, sat Nora, and her slender fingers were busy twining them into little garlands to brighten up their poor abode. Very pale and fragile looked the girl, almost too fragile to struggle with the world, but her sweet face was happier than when last we saw her kneeling at her mother’s feet. It was as though the storm of life had buffeted her until almost crushed, and having vented its utmost fury, had passed away, leaving her at rest at last, but oh! so worn and weary with the strife.

Poor old Mrs. Flanagan! Every thought of her heart turned to Nora. When her daughter was sometimes gay with a touch of the light-heartedness of other days, the gaiety would find an echo with her, and she would strive to be merry for that dear one’s sake. And if, as was more frequently the case, the girl was sad, the shadow rested on the mother also. She seemed now but to live in the reflection of her daughter’s life.

Even now, whilst busy with the morrow’s good cheer, she would ever and anon pause to glance at her child; and if the girl chanced to look up, and met the mother’s eyes with a smile, what intense joy spread over that mother’s careworn face, lighting it up with the sunshine of love.

Ah me! we can never fathom the depth of a mother’s tenderness. Who in the whole world cares for us as she does? Pitiful to our faults, sorrowing with our griefs, rejoicing in our joys. Who so unselfish? who so true? Happy the child who can truthfully say, “Never has sin of mine furrowed thy brow, or silvered thy hair, my darling.”

But to return to our story.

Pollie, seated as before mentioned at Nora’s feet, was intently watching her (making very little progress, I fear, with stoning the raisins) as she daintily threaded some berries to form a word, and many a merry laugh was caused by the two children trying to guess what the word was to be.

P was the letter first fixed on to the slip of cardboard, and which she held up to them, smiling brightly.

“I know what it’s to be!” cried Sally, who was becoming quite a scholar now; “it’s plum-pudding.”

But Nora shook her head, saying-

“No, that is not the word I am going to make. Can you guess, Pollie?”

“I don’t think I can,” was the reply. “Is it” -

“P stands for Pollie,” cried out impetuous Sally, in her eagerness almost upsetting her basin of raisins upon the floor. “Perhaps it’s that.”

There was much merriment over Sally’s guessing, and much amazement too on the part of Mrs Grimes, who was utterly astonished at her “gal’s larning;” but still Nora shook her head. No, that was not the word intended.

Many were the conjectures hazarded, till at last Pollie resolved to try no more, but wait until the entire word or phrase was finished, both children promising not to look until at a given signal from Nora they should know it was completed. Then they resumed their employment, waiting very patiently for the time. At last it came.

“Now,” said Nora, and she held it up so that all could see, then she gave it into Pollie’s hand.

The puzzle was solved.

“Peace on earth,” read the child aloud.

There was a silence, each one occupied with thoughts those words suggested. Tears filled the eyes of the two widows, for they clearly understood what was in the girl’s heart when tracing those letters. Her head was bowed; they could not see her face, but her hands were very trembling as she clasped them together as if in silent prayer.

Pollie broke the silence.

“Nora, dearie,” she half whispered, “I wish we could get in the other beautiful words, ‘Glory to God in the highest,’ because it is He who gives us this sweet peace, and I should so like to thank Him.”