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O whom is the hour of twilight so sweet as to children? Too tired to play, and yet unreconciled to the nightly trial of being put to bed, children, half the world over, have simultaneously raised their tender voices, and consecrated this hour to story-listening.

At twilight, five sisters were cosily gathered around the dear paternal hearth. "Sisser, tell me a tory!" said little Virginia, climbing on my knee and circling my waist with her tiny arms until the dimpled hands met, and then nestling her curly head upon my shoulder, "Tell me a pretty tory!"

There is no refusing our petted Jenny.

"What must the story be about, Jenny?"

"Oh, about fairies and dood children."

"Shall I tell you about three little sisters whom I knew, who are all angels now, and shall I tell you of a heavenly dream I once had about them?"

"Yes, about angels; angels will do as well as fairies."

"Well, then, listen. One Christmas morning I was sitting in church amongst a number of