After this Aunt Betsy grew very calm. She knew Helen was there and could now enjoy the distributing of the gifts, going up herself two or three times, and wondering why anybody should think of her, a good-for-nothing old woman. The skates and the smelling bottles both went safely to Sylvia and John, while Mrs. Deacon Bannister looked radiant when her name was called and she was made the recipient of a jar of butternut pickles, such as only Aunt Betsy Barlow could make.
"Miss Helen Lennox. A soldier in uniform, from one of her Sunday school scholars."
The words rang out loud and clear, the rector holding up the sugar toy before the amused audience, who turned to look at Helen, blushing so painfully, and trying to hold back the real man in soldier's dress who went quietly up the aisle, receiving the gift with a bow and smile which turned the heads of half the ladies near him, and then went back to Helen, over whom he bent, whispering something which made her cheeks grow brighter than they were before, while she dropped her eyes modestly.
"Who is he?" a woman asked, touching Aunt Betsy's shoulder.
"Captain Ray, from New York," was the answer, as Aunt Betsy gave to her dress a little broader sweep and smoothed the bow she had tried to tie beneath her chin just as Mattie Tubbs had tied it on the memorable opera night.
"Miss Helen Lennox. A sugar heart, from one of her scholars," the rector called again, the titters of the audience almost breaking into cheers as they began to suspect the relation sustained to Helen by the handsome young officer, going up the aisle after Helen's heart and stopping to speak to good Aunt Betsy, who pulled his coat skirt as he passed her.
The tree by this time was nearly empty. Every child had been remembered, save one, and that Billy, the organ boy, who, separated from his companions, stood near Helen, watching the tree wistfully, while shadows of hope and disappointment passed alternately over his face as one after another the presents were distributed and nothing came to him.
"There ain't a darned thing on it for me," he exclaimed at last, when boy nature could endure no longer, and Mark turned toward him just in time to see the gathering mist which but for the most heroic efforts would have merged into tears.
"Poor Billy," Helen said, as she too heard his comment, "I fear he has been forgotten. His teacher is absent and he so faithful at the organ too."