birds, of eclipses, and the like, came to see the wonder. "Mary Chavah!" said most of the village, "you're the luckiest woman alive. If a miracle was bound to happen, it'd get itself happened to you." "I don't believe in miracles, though," Mary wrote to Jenny Wing. "These come just natural—only we don't know how." "That is miracles," Jenny wrote back. "They do come natural—we don't know how." "At this rate," said Ellen Bourne, one of Mary's neighbours, "you'll be having roses bloom in your yard about Christmas time. For a Christmas present." "I don't believe in Christmas," Mary said. "I thought you knew that. But I'll take the roses, though, if they come in the Winter," she added, with her queer flash of smile. When it was dusk, or early in the morning, Mary Chavah, with her long shawl over her head, stooped beside the violets and loosened the earth about them w