“A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM”
By
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The snow swirled against the window in great gusts. Agatha Brewster sat looking into the flaming grate.
“What’s the matter, mamma dear?” asked Betty, her little daughter. “You look so sad—and this is Christmas eve.”
Agatha did not answer. She could not trust her voice. There was a mist before her eyes. She sat there thinking, thinking, thinking. It was just a year ago tonight that Dave, her husband, had parted from her in anger. Since then no word, no letter—nothing but endless conferences with that hideous lawyer, the unbearable condolences of well-meaning friends, the dull heart-ache, the thought of little Betty....