CHAPTER VIII

THE SPELL--AND HOW IT WORKED

The poor children felt as though they had come under some gentle

influence, and curiously enough, though outwardly asleep, they were

conscious of the Wizard walking around them, pushing and pinching them,

which somehow they never felt; and they were conscious, too, that he was

troubled about something. What it was they couldn't imagine. He began to

mutter threats coupled with the name of the Bird-Fairy.

The Wizard was clearly not at all happy. Indeed, he was profoundly

concerned--for every time he touched the children to wake them, a

sensation of cold spread over his hands which became rapidly more and

more acute until it felt like touching fire, and he shrank back

muttering and grumbling.

At that moment there was a great rush of air. The Bird-Fairy appeared,

and with outspread wings she stood over the resting children, and, full

of pity, she gazed down at them. Then they knew they were in her care,

and they knew, too, that _they knew something which might prove useful

and precious_. And they smiled happily as they lay there.

"What do you want here?" demanded the Wizard harshly. "How dare you come

here and try to thwart me?"

"I have come to pray you to turn from your evil ways. Let these poor

children go," begged the Bird-Fairy in tones sweet and pleading. "They

have realised how much their happy home means to them and the safety

there is in being taken care of. Let them go back to it."

"Tush! Nonsense! What's all that to me? Begone while I let you! I'm in

no mood to be trifled with."

"Show kindness and mercy for once," was her reply.

"What? Go! You remain to mock me? Remember my little Zoological

Collection. Which of us triumphed throughout?"

"Don't boast of that."

"But there is much to boast about. And my experiments have not stood

still since that remote period. Science has progressed!"

"You will not be merciful?"

A scornful laugh was all the reply he vouchsafed.

"Then know," she continued solemnly, "that our Fairy Enchantments have

also strengthened with time."

"Is it to be another tussle between us?" inquired the Wizard, smiling.

"It is. And I pray it may be for the last time. I have failed before.

But this time I am going to succeed. With the girl my difficulty was not

so great, but the boy has been hard to convince that other creatures

have troubles greater than his. Others have returned to you through your

craft, but this little couple you were forced to go and meet. You sought

to entrap the boy as a Crab--it was I who restored the gem and saved

him, as you may have guessed. And with that success the Bird-Fairy's

hour now has come! You have failed to snare them as Bird, Beast, or

Fish--your science can change mortals to nothing else. And now you shall

fail to turn them to slaves."

Again the Wizard's discordant laughter was heard, and he said--

"You certainly got hold of that gem, my dear--and you evidently consider

yourself in consequence an apt pupil of that old Fairy who befriended

you--worse luck to her! had she but passed a moment later there would

have been no time to frustrate me. My science would have been powerful

enough to change you into a mere Bird. My Collection would have been the

more valuable, and she could not have made you into a Fairy besides; nor

would you have known enchanting arts with power to torment me; nor would

you have had any hope of future freedom."

The Wizard paused a moment, then rasped out--

"Were it not for your own salvation perhaps you wouldn't be so ready to

help the children, and to dare attempt to triumph over me. But we shall

see what progress we have both made!"

"We shall see!" she repeated. "Touch these dear children if you can. You

find it difficult? You do not understand it, eh?"

The Wizard, with a groan of pain, had leapt back after another attempt.

"I soon shall understand it," he cried angrily, taking up a bottle

containing a green fluid, a few drops of which he poured into his

palms, then smiled. "This will wake them quickly enough, and probably

never let them sleep again."

But the only result was a louder cry of pain from him and a peaceful

snore from them.

The Bird-Fairy looked steadily at him, and the Wizard trembled with

anger and fear. Recovering himself he muttered: "You've got them well

under your wing. So it must be with you I have to deal first. Ah, ha!

I'll show you how Science can outdo your paltry old-fashioned arts!"

Thereupon he took a curious box-shaped mechanism, pointed it at the

Bird-Fairy, pressed a spring, and instantly the pretty trio became

enveloped in a halo of rainbow. The next moment the wings of the

Bird-Fairy drooped, and the children awoke. Her Spell was broken!

He moved his terrible invention slightly, so that she alone was

encircled by the rainbow ray. She stood there motionless like a

beautiful statue; and the Bird-Fairy was in the Wizard's power!

[Illustration: _The wizard, with a groan of pain, had leapt back_]

A few moments more and his triumph would be supreme and everlasting. She

would exist no more. His evil heart thumped with excitement and glee.

A continuous and regular movement around the cave, and an underground

heaving and low, distant rumbling arrested the Wizard's attention. He

gasped and started, and the instrument he held fell from his grasp and

shivered to atoms.

The Twins were the cause. It was they who had started the commotion.

Unobserved by the Wizard in his moment of exultation, freed by him from

the Bird-Fairy's Spell, they were free to follow the irresistible

inclination they felt when they were under it. So they gently stroked

each of the animals around, and were charmed to find that as they did so

each poor creature changed to girl or boy and vanished from its prison,

whilst the ground trembled and the rumbling became louder and louder, as

though some unseen power was helping in the rescue. So quickly did they

run round on their task that at the moment when the Wizard realised his

mishap, just as he thought he had triumphed, Dulcie and Cyril had done

their work. They started as they saw the Wizard lying full length on the

ground next to his shattered invention, the rays of which were let loose

and playing like lightning all round him.

Then they remained rooted to the spot with amazement, for just beyond

was the Bird-Fairy, who before their astonished gaze became suddenly

bereft of her wings and covering of feathers, and now stood before them

as a lovely Princess, in draperies of silver tissue, and with a golden

circlet upon her dark hair. A happy smile was on her face, as with a

farewell gesture she motioned the children away.

[Illustration: _Lying full length on the ground next to his shattered

invention_]

There was a terrific noise as of a thunder-clap. They looked back.

Nothing but a dark cloud was there!

* * * * *

"Come quick!" cried Dulcie, taking Cyril's hand and running off with

him; "there's no shelter here. Let's get in before the rain."

And away they sped from the rocks on which they had so often played,

reached home, ran indoors, and got upstairs just before the big drops

turned into a heavy downpour and came pattering against the nursery

window-pane.

"Are you children ready?" called up their mother in her kind, cheery

voice. "Come down and have tea with me for a treat."

It was a welcome invitation. They were quick to shout their thanks and

to make themselves tidy. When they entered the parlour, where the sun

was peeping in again after his absence, their mother said quietly--

"I'm glad you've escaped the storm."

Later on, they all three sat in the gathering twilight at the large

bow-window watching Nature going to sleep. The two children sat up very

late that night--and they told their mother such an extraordinary story

that she wondered how ever it could have got into their heads; and

wondered where they could have read it. But they knew they hadn't read

it.

"Look at the bump on Cyril's forehead!" exclaimed Dulcie, as conclusive

evidence of the fight. But their mother only shook her head. Cyril often

wore such marks of battle.

"And, little Mother, we _are_ so glad to be at home." She laughed. But

they meant it.

THE OLD-FANGLED FATHER AND HIS NEW-FANGLED SONS

Centuries ago, an old father--as old as one of them--lay on his couch

feeling that his end was near. He was not surprised; in fact, he had

foreseen it as he had foreseen many other events. And he was reputed

wise beyond his years, and therefore far beyond those of the people who

reputed it.

So he called softly to him his three sons. They didn't hear him, being

busy in different parts of the house; and it never occurred to him to

ring the bell, because he was so old-fangled. He shouted to them, and

they came.

"I have three things to say to you," remarked the father solemnly.

The sons fidgeted visibly; they had been studying, were not at home to

any one, and particularly had not wished to be disturbed in their work.

They thought that their father was going to begin another anecdote, and

it put them out of humour; but they were startled when he said--

"My sons, my end is near."

Each one replied with an endearing term--just one, for they were not men

of many words. And they told him "it was only his fuss." That he was

"only a hundred, and didn't look as if he were going to be cut off

prematurely." "That he mustn't give in and should never say 'die.'"

"I cannot argue the point," replied the old man. "Let me tell you my

last wishes as briefly as I can, for my time is short."

They tried to dissuade him from talking so much, but it was of no avail,

for he protested that it was their duty to listen to him, and he

insisted upon having last wishes as he had read that others had had

before him, and it would be for the sons to obey and unravel them as

best they could.

Then the father, addressing the eldest, who was ambitious and already

past middle age, spoke as follows:--

"My son, my first-born, find out the furthermost summit of the world,

and when you have surmounted that, you can surmount anything."

To his second son, who was avaricious and also getting old and rather

bald, he said:--

"Sit patiently, and wait, and when you can hear a voice that comes from

no living throat, and can see its traces, you will want for nothing."

To the third son, and consequently his favourite, who was romantic,

being better looking and naturally younger than his elder brothers, the

father spoke thus:--

"You, my son, who are the pride of my heart, the joy of my life, the

light of mine eyes, search the atmosphere till at your bidding it

showers down burning stars; then shall you go to the beautiful Princess

who awaits you, and live without labour."

And the three brothers murmured under their breath:--

"Poor old dad! He's certainly very unwell."

But he had not yet finished.

"Try to realise your ambition, my sons," he continued. "I have shown you

the ways you should go. Then, and only then, will you have earned that

priceless jewel--Contentment."

The old man then composed himself comfortably, and died a few years

later, after a sharp attack of senile decay, leaving many regrets and

unsettled accounts behind him.

When that happened the three sons were very sad all day and all night.

The very next morning they called to mind his last wishes of a few years

ago, and decided to ponder over them, give them the benefit of their

doubt, and see if anything could be made out of them. And they stuck

manfully to their resolution, especially as the creditors were hourly

expected.

The eldest son looked up all the maps and geography books he could get

hold of, and studied them until he came to the uncomfortable conclusion

that he would certainly risk death by sea and cannibals many times

before he could hope to reach the furthermost summit of the globe.

The second son sat and waited for the voice he was both to hear and

trace, until at night he gave up in despair. So he decided that the only

voice worth listening to was that of common-sense.

The favourite son, meanwhile, went for a long walk, bent on success,

and, unlike the others, full of a new hope. Yet, search as he would, he

could find no spot where the atmosphere changed into stars at his

bidding, and he returned home long after dinner-time disconsolate to his

supper of soup which had grown cold.

The next morning the three brothers arose in disappointment and vexation

of mind. They murmured loud and long at having been sent on fairy-tale

errands in a world where no clever talking animals really existed, or

kind-hearted inanimate objects volunteered to befriend them on

impossible quests.

As the first-born explained:--

"If I were to coax my parrot and ask him to help me in return for my

many years of kindness, as they do successfully in fairy stories, he

would bite me for my pains, as he always does whenever I feed him."

And the second-born said:--

"If I were to fondle a pin and said, 'Ah, pin! canst thou help me in my

distress?' ten to one I would get pricked, and serve me right for being

so imbecile."

"As for me," exclaimed the romantic one, "were a gentle wolf to find me

mooning about the forest thinking of my beauteous Princess, surely would

he stop and, with a keen sense of the fitness of things, he would not

trifle with politeness, but he would eat of me as much as would satisfy

his present need--perhaps even more than he could digest."

And the brothers laughed aloud in the splenetic bitterness of their

three souls.

Another year went by. The sons had paid their father's debts and made

some on their own account; so they held a council, and they confessed

that they had idled so long because they were haunted by the rosy

promise their father's words held out, and, do what they would, they

could neither forget them nor yet find any solution.

Then together they pondered and thought, until one fine day (all the

rest about that time had been wet) they concluded that as they were not

believers in fairy tales, science perhaps might help them.

So they worked and worked and worked, each with his own object. They

certainly did not lack brains, or test-tubes, or electric wire, yet just

as certainly did they lack money; and, but for the occasional doing of

menial work, they would have starved and starved and gone hungry.

At last the eldest son solved his mystery. Now could he surmount the

furthest summit of the world, for he had invented a machine which could

carry him soaring like a bird over mountains and over seas.

And the second son solved _his_ mystery. Now he could hear a voice that

came from no living throat and yet could see its traces, for he had

invented an automaton that could speak and could record its words with a

stylus upon tablets of wax.

And the third son solved _his_ mystery. He had searched the atmosphere,

and now at his bidding burning stars were showered down, for he had

invented a kite fashioned on a wonderful wire, which went through the

air and drew forth electric sparks. And his heart burned with love for

the beautiful Princess whom he knew awaited him, though by this time she

must be getting on.

The excitement of the brothers was great. "It is our genius we can

thank!" they exclaimed all in three breaths. "Our father, steeped in his

old-fangled lore, never could have foreseen our triumphs. He never could

have guessed how we should solve his posers." That was their conclusion.

Then they shook hands all round, congratulated one another, and went

their different ways.

The eldest flew off, mounted upon his wonderful air-steed, amid the

gaping of the astonished villagers, and his two brothers looked after

him wistfully until he disappeared far away behind the clouds. The hopes

of the traveller rose ever higher and higher as for weeks and months he

soared on, exhilarated beyond all imagination. At last he came to the

furthermost summit of which his dear father had spoken so solemnly. Over

it sailed the son as easily as a bird. When crack! the machine broke and

collapsed, and the unfortunate inventor was hurled headlong into the

sea, and every moment threatened to be his last, but wasn't. As he

floundered in the water he looked annoyed, and he murmured to himself:--

"There must be some mistake. Who can truly say that I have found

Contentment here?"

Meanwhile the second son had borrowed a camel and gone off with his

precious automaton to the great city, there to reap the reward of his

labours. All the way he reckoned how he could best enjoy the vast sums

of gold which would be poured into his lap. And he came to the

conclusion that to gaze at it would give more pleasure than to spend any

of it, except just a little for coffers to keep it in. He laughed aloud

in anticipation. Arrived at his journey's end, he unpacked his treasure

and set it working, and was forthwith lodged in prison--for the city

turned out to be as narrow-minded as it was great, and it assured him

that he must be a wizard. He assured it he wasn't, and proved that he

didn't believe in fairy tales, for he had not relied upon them for help.

But it was of no avail; there was nothing more to be said. This

disappointing ending to so much effort and such real success encouraged

him in the conviction that in the position in which he found himself he

could find no legitimate ground for Contentment.

During this time the favourite son had sallied forth singing in search

of the beauteous Princess. His marvellous kite was slung behind him. He

wended his steps toward the only Court he knew of, where dwelt a

Princess good, beautiful, and unmarried--a combination of charms of

marked rarity. So joyous and merry was he, that the squirrels squeaked

and scurried away at sight of him, and the very hyenas laughed in

harmony as he passed by singing, "Tra-la-la!" in his blithe

lightsomeness. Ah, how gladsome and thrice happy was that merry, merry

morn!

Now the Princess sat in the vast hall of the palace turning up her nose

at the stream of suitors that promenaded in front of her, very bored and

weary at the continuous routine. But she never seemed to tire of it in

her certainty that "the right one" would put in his appearance at the

right moment.

She was a very spoilt lady indeed; there was no one to gainsay her.

Indeed, so spoilt was she, that every night she would cry for the stars,

and blame the skies for being selfish and not sparing her a few when

they knew (for she had often told them) that she wished to wear them in

her hair. And every one said how illogical it was of her, and no one

told her they were too large for practical purposes.

One bitterly cold night, whilst she was sitting thus at her open

casement, bemoaning the selfishness of the skies, and heedless of

everything else, a mighty hubbub arose outside.

"What ho!" called the pretty Princess. Her attendants came tumbling in

to her in their eagerness to answer her summons.

"What's without?" she inquired.

Nobody knew, and tumbled out to get to know. They rushed back and told

her all at once that a brand new suitor had arrived at that unusual

hour, and would she snub him at once or tarry till the morrow? It took

her a little time to unravel what was said amidst such a babel of

voices.

"La! Oh my!" suddenly exclaimed the Princess, her eyes riveted outside

on the blackness of the night. She could scarcely believe her senses,

for there, in her garden, stars were actually falling down in showers,

lighting up the figure of a man who, with upstretched hand, was

beckoning them to come!

He was summoned at once to the royal presence, shivering and blue with

cold; but his romantic heart throbbed at the sight of so much beauty,

and his face assumed a warmer hue. He was so intoxicated with delight

that afterwards he could never quite tell how it all came about. As in a

haze, he remembered the Princess greeting him as the one long awaited;

he recollected her saying that as he could wrest the stars from the

selfish skies, he could gratify her desire to wear some in her hair, and

bade him go collect them.

He explained his invention. She grew impatient. He told her the

electricity would kill him. She shrugged her shoulders and insisted. He

declined to take the risk. Whereupon she turned into a fury in her

pretty illogicality, and exclaiming that he must be the wrong man after

all, she flung his invention into the fire and ordered him to be flung

after it. He took the hint by the heels and fled through the window, far

into the night.

Not at all Content with his romantic adventure, or with life as a whole,

he enlisted and became a target in the front rank of the army.

It was, of course, some time later that the eldest brother--who had been

plucked from the billows by a fisherman who happened to be passing by as

usual--booked his passage home, and found on his arrival that the said

home had been sold, as advertised, for building lots in eligible plots

on easy terms, to pay expenses.

The second brother, in order to secure his freedom from prison, then and

there smashed up his automaton and trudged home, arriving just in time

to join his brother in being ordered away from their former doorstep,

though still held responsible for the rates and taxes.

At that moment, too, the brother of the twain was deposited amongst

them, having been invalided to his sold-up home for life.

So, in order not to trespass for fear of prosecution, they all three sat

down a little outside the boundary line and recounted each to the others

their adventures and their experiences. It was nightfall before they had

done, and they really could hardly help laughing. And then, after

thinking things out, they shook hands all round in silence.

For the prophecy had come true. _They were content._ The three sons were

now thoroughly Content--to work no more, to do nothing more for the rest

of their existence. It wasn't worth it, they said. Their disappointments

were over, and they were fully Content that they should be so. The

villagers, once more open-mouthed in their gaping, and open-minded too,

differed from the inhabitants of the great city, and looked upon the

brothers as who should say "three wise men," and took upon themselves

the care of them in the workhouse, and were proud to get them, and to

show them to visitors.

As to the beautiful Princess, she was changed by time into an old maid,

and still kept on turning up her nose at elderly, rheumatic suitors as

they passed on their usual rounds.

So the old father was right after all.

His ambitious son had surmounted everything, including disappointment.

His avaricious son had succeeded in having his wants supplied for

nothing.

And his favourite son could jog along as romantically as the workhouse

rules allowed, without labour and without effort.

THE LITTLE PICTURE GIRL

It was Christmas Eve, and a little girl lay in her little bed, wondering

what Santa Claus was going to put in her stocking this year. It was hung

up where he would be sure to see it, and upon the same chair before the

fireplace she had thoughtfully placed her clothes-brush in case he might

like to brush off the soot from his coat.

The grate held but a few smouldering embers, for it was late, very

late--at least ten o'clock--and Minna ought to have been asleep hours

ago. Perhaps she would have been, only there were so many things to

wonder about to-night, and one cannot be sure of wondering about them

when one is fast asleep.

So after wondering about Santa Claus, she turned to the stars, which she

could see through the uncurtained window: she wondered if they twinkled

and winked like that because they liked it or because she liked it. Then

there was the moon, which was looking straight at her in its own

unblushing, beaming way and filled the room with its light; and she sat

up in bed and watched it, wondering where it went to during the day.

Now opposite her bed were three pictures, coloured and framed. One was

of a dainty Columbine smiling at her companion picture--a Harlequin who

stood on his toes with feet crossed, and his arms folded over his staff;

and the pair set her wondering what she would see at the promised

pantomime.

Between them hung Minna's favourite picture. It represented a fine old

moated house covered with snow. On the white path which led from the

portico were tracks of little feet, manifestly made by the little

smiling girl who stood in the act of passing over the bridge that

spanned the moat. She appeared to be the same age as Minna, about six

years old, and was dressed in a red pelisse and fur tippet. Her dark

hair peeped from under a red, broad-brimmed hat with drooping feathers,

and her hands were hidden in a large fur muff.

Minna herself had just such an outdoor costume, and when dressed for her

walk she had often wondered where the little Picture Girl could be

going so gaily for hers. And now Minna wondered that once more as she

glanced at her favourite picture, upon which the moon was shining so

brightly to-night, till, bathed in the bright light, it seemed to stand

right out from the shadows of the room.

[Illustration: _The Little Picture Girl_]

There was a creak, as though the old wardrobe wanted to stretch itself

after standing still so long--a funny little way furniture has now and

again. But Minna didn't think it was the wardrobe this time--she thought

Harlequin had done it. For it seemed to her as though he had suddenly

stretched forth his arm and struck out with his staff. No--he was just

as usual, only somewhat darker, being in shadow; and as usual just ready

to do something, yet never doing it.

But surely with the favourite picture there was something

different!--some change! It was always morning there. And now--why, now

it was night! The moon was lighting up the old moated house, and the

stars were twinkling over its heavy, white-capped roof. Minna looked for

the little girl in red--but there was no little girl in red on the

bridge at all!

"Of course," reflected Minna, "she must be in bed behind one of those

little dormer windows fast asleep--for it must be very late."

This seemed strange somehow, yet it was only just as it really ought to

be. She herself never went for a morning walk in the middle of the

night, nor had she ever heard of any one else doing so.

All at once, from the distant steeple which peeped through the white

sparkling trees beyond the bridge, came a muffled striking of the hour,

and Minna, to her increasing surprise, counted on her fingers up to ten,

and then there were two more. And then, to her amazement, whom should

she see on the bridge in the snow, which had begun gently to fall

again--not the little girl in red--but dear old Santa Claus himself,

covered up in fur and scarlet, trudging towards the house with

tempting-looking parcels slung about him! Now he fixed a ladder against

the thick, frost-laden ivy which covered the front of the old house, and

he mounted it very carefully. Then he climbed up the roof as easily as

if he had been walking along the high-road in the daylight. And then he

disappeared down one of the chimneys. Very soon he reappeared without

quite so many parcels, slowly descended the ladder, put it upon his

shoulder, and walked off with it.

Minna's eyes followed him with the utmost astonishment and interest. Of

course, she always knew that it was Santa Claus's lovely privilege to

come down the chimney, but she had never actually known him to do

it--and then the joy of seeing him come out again, evidently on his

rounds, was breathlessly delicious!

[Illustration: _He mounted it very carefully_]

All was quiet now--only the moon and the stars and Minna watching over

the slumbering house and garden, about which the soft snow-flakes

hovered and fluttered. She had more than ever to wonder about now. She

longed for a peep--just one peep--inside that beautiful house, to see if

the little Picture Girl was really asleep.

Harlequin must have guessed what Minna wanted, for there is no doubt

that he gave her a knowing look (though it might have been meant for

sweet Columbine); and just as surely Minna saw his arm stretch out and

heard the rap of his staff upon the picture frame. Then he pretended he

hadn't done it; but she forgot all about him, so great was her interest

in what she saw.

At that touch of Harlequin's the scene had changed to a dainty bedroom.

It was dawn. A red pelisse and hat hung upon a peg on the door, and a

large muff peeped from its box on the shelf. A rosy light tinged the

face of the child who was sleeping there in the old wooden bedstead, and

woke her up. The first thing the little Picture Girl did was to look

with content into her stocking. It was very fat. And then, with a little

pant of delight, she discovered a lovely doll lying on her pillow. First

she hugged and then she kissed it; then she laid her new treasure beside

her, her heavy eyelids drooped, and she fell asleep again.

And nothing stirred.

"More, please!" said Minna, by this time quite at home with Harlequin.

Again he gave that knowing look, and did as she asked. A rap, and once

more she saw the garden. It had stopped snowing, and the sun was rising

over the old roof.

Suddenly a little sweep appeared, swung himself up by the ivy, crept

stealthily up the tiles, and disappeared down a chimney. In a moment he

reappeared with a doll and a fat-looking stocking, all so quickly that,

before Minna had time to clasp her hands and cry out, he was gone

altogether. She looked at Harlequin, but he paid no attention.

"More!" she repeated eagerly. Harlequin's staff then moved and rapped.

And there was the breakfast-room in the old moated house. The master of

it sat at the table reading his newspaper. Soon he looked up and nodded

encouragingly at his little daughter, who very seriously was making his

tea. She nodded back and smiled. But it was a sad little smile, and her

eyes were rather red, as though something had happened.

Then the door opened, and, to every one's surprise, in marched a stout

beadle. In one hand he held a doll and a stocking full of sweets, and in

the other he held the collar of a little sweep, with the little sweep

wriggling inside it. Close behind there came a tiny crippled girl, who

moved painfully by the aid of a crutch to the boy's side, and laid a

trembling hand on his arm. The brother and sister were much like one

another, in feature and in squalor. Great tears were rolling down her

cheeks, and her poor face was no whiter with pain than his with fright

beneath the soot, though, looking lovingly at her, he tried to appear

brave.

The beadle noticed the little Picture Girl's look of recognition at

sight of her lost treasures, and as he gave them back to her he pointed

to the black marks on the doll's frock, which tallied with the little

sweep's grimy paw, and then jerked his head towards the crippled child

in whose possession he had found them. Then the stout beadle gave the

boy a shake, just to remind him of his wrong-doing--as if any further

reminder was needed!--and made for the door, dragging the wretched

offender after him.

But the little Picture Girl showed so much distress, stopped him, and

looked at him so piteously, and with so much kindness in her sweet eyes,

that he let go his grip of the collar. Then she put the presents into

the boy's hand, and pushed him gently towards his sister. But the lad

shook his head sadly, and looked more ashamed than ever.

[Illustration: _In marched a stout beadle_]

The little Picture Girl glanced at her father, who had been silently

watching the scene. He nodded, so she pressed them on the boy, whose

eyes now filled with tears as he gazed, humbled and grateful, at the

beautiful young lady whose generosity saved him from punishment.

Meanwhile, the gentleman Christmas-boxed the beadle, who smiled fatly

and went his way. Then, for a moment or two, the picture-father's

uplifted finger wagged a warning at the boy, who hung his head: but

Minna could see that it was not so very terrible, because, if the boy

had not confessed his fault, how would the beadle have known in what

house he had yielded to temptation for his sister's sake? The little

cripple dried her eyes at seeing her brother safe, and was very grateful

for the gifts she hesitated to accept. But she had a right to keep them

now; and it was not her fault that she was the innocent cause of her

brother's offence.

Food from the breakfast-table was wrapped up in the newspaper, the big

bundle was put into the little sweep's arms, and the two poor waifs who

had entered so miserable were sent away happy at the bright moment which

had entered into their dark lives, whilst the little Picture Girl, who

for the second time had lost the presents Santa Claus had brought her,

looked after the poor little pair quite content, and smiled as she

waved good-bye with her pretty hand.

Then the master of the old moated house wiped his spectacles, which

somehow had become quite misty. He lifted up his little daughter in his

arms and kissed her, and, putting his hand into his pocket, drew from

his purse a gold piece which she took with a laugh of surprise and

delight, and threw her arms round his dear bronzed neck.

Minna saw nothing more. She must have fallen fast asleep.

It was very late when she awoke. The first thing she did was to smile as

she trotted off to look at what Santa Claus had put in her stocking. She

had seen him on his rounds. She had seen his parcels. Dear, kind old

Santa Claus, who saves up all the year to be the loving, generous friend

to little children at Christmas-time. Minna smiled again as the thought

flashed through her mind. She approached her stocking. It looked rather

thin--horridly thin. It was empty! She ran to her pillow. Nothing on it,

nothing under it! She could not understand it. Oh, Santa Claus!

She gave a big gulp, and decided to wait and see what her father would

say about it. She had to bustle too, for the bell would very soon ring

for breakfast, at which it was her duty to preside.

"Papa, Santa Claus has forgotten me!" were her first words after the

morning kiss.

[Illustration: _Smiled as she waved good-bye_]

At this, her father pursed up his lips with a blank look. "Dear, dear!

Good gracious! 'Pon my word! What a forgetful old Santa Claus. I'm

afraid he's getting past his work. Perhaps," he said, turning to the

window, as a tear was gathering in each of Minna's bright eyes, "the

snow was too thick."

"No, Funnyums" (she often called him that), "it wasn't the snow. I know

he was out in it, 'cos I saw him."

"Saw him, did you?" he replied, smiling. "Well, perhaps he gave all the

toys away till there were none left, and then, as the shops were shut,

there were no more to be had!"

Minna now felt sure her father was joking as usual, and that there must

be some secret.

"But perhaps, Minna, Santa Claus came to my room by mistake," he added.

"In fact, it occurred to me that he might. He's getting short-sighted,

you know, and--we are so very much alike. Suppose you go and see!"

Away she ran, and there, sure enough, were Funnyums's two socks hung up!

One looked full, the other looked empty. She found in the full one all

sorts of good things to eat. Minna emptied it quickly.

"I wish Funnyums wore stockings," she murmured. Then she went to the

empty one, which wasn't empty, because right down in the toe there was a

gold piece!

Then Funnyums was hugged, and Funnyums was thanked, and scolded for

being up to his tricks again, and then hugged once more to make it all

right. All that stirring time he was quietly pretending to read his

newspaper--just as though he really wanted to read it at all!

And Minna forgot everything in the excitement of Christmas Day. That

night she slept soundly. The following day she went to the pantomime,

and afterwards dreamt about Columbine.

It was only on the morrow that she noticed again her favourite picture,

and then her mind wandered back to the wonderful things that had

happened there. And as she gazed at the little girl in red, who was

going out so joyously for her morning walk, it occurred to her where the

little Picture Girl must be going to--she was going out, as Minna was,

to spend the gold piece _her_ father had given her!

"Ah, she deserved it," Minna said to herself. "I--I don't quite think

I've deserved mine--that is, quite so much. I should like to do

something for children who suffer and are poor," she muttered,

"like--like the children in the hospital." And slowly, as she thought it

out, she made up her mind that the doll she was going to buy should be a

very small one, and that the rest of the money from the gold piece she

would send to the "Children's Hospital Fund."

Seldom has any child felt happier than Minna did that sunny morning as

she donned her red pelisse and hat, and took her muff from its box. She

paused at the door, and glanced at the little Picture Girl, who was

smiling back at her. "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" said

Minna out loud, dropped her a little curtsey, nodded gaily, and ran

out.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY'S DREAM

"She pricked her hand with the point of the spindle, and fell

into a deep, deep sleep."

And the creepers that had been climbing over the castle walls for a long

time, searching for the turret chamber wherein the sleeping Princess

lay--the ivy, the jessamine, the briar rose--climbed round odd niches

and corners, as if all were curious to see the lovely maiden under the

Fairy Spell. But the years went by and none had reached so high, though

one sweet little briar rose had not given up hope, and crept steadily

onward and spread as it went. And this is the dream of the beautiful

Princess:--

She dreamt that she arose and wandered forth out of the castle gates, on

to the sunlit terrace. Her attendants had dozed over their labours, and

she wondered at their laziness. The peacocks had stopped in their

strutting and had fallen asleep; even the singing-birds in the trees had

ceased their trilling and hidden their little heads under their wings.

But the Princess did not tarry. She went straight on, past the closed-up

daisies and sunflowers and the drooping foxgloves, past the goldfish

drowsing in the fountain basin, for all around Nature was hushed and had

fallen asleep.

Without hesitation she crossed the meadow of wild flowers, and reached

the willow path that skirted the sparkling river, and did not stop until

she reached a willow larger than the rest. Then, bending under its

branches, she neared the water's edge. There an old wooden skiff was

moored; lifting her silken robe, she stepped into it, unfastened the

cord, and, reclining on the embroidered cushions, she closed her eyes

with a happy sigh. Away drifted the bark with its lovely burden. The

sunlight turned to twilight with lurid gleams, and pale green flecks

jewelled the sky; the twilight turned to dark grey and silver, and the

moon and stars watched her on her way. The bark floated to where the

silent river joined the open sea; still peacefully on it went, over the

bosom of the moonlit ocean, onward into the night.

The Princess's sweet thoughts were disturbed by the sudden stopping of

her craft, which had run aground on the sands just where the tiny

wavelets retreated shyly, to venture again and as quickly withdraw.

Soft and balmy was the summer's night, and on the breeze music came,

wafted towards the young Princess, who smiled and landed lightly, drawn

by the bright strains which led her, following, to a pleasure ground.

Lights hung festooned in the great trees, and in an open space peasants

in their picturesque costumes were dancing, and laughing as they

stepped. The Princess, from behind a tree, gazed on the scene, on the

glades and lake in the distance--all mysterious in the night; and as she

listened to the laughter and the music, she knew she had never heard

anything so delightful before.

Happy at the sight and sounds, she moved from behind the tree, and she

saw a young man approach her with great respect--one of a group who were

not dancing. The Princess would have fled, but he was already close; and

although his dress betokened origin as humble as that of those around,

he was as handsome as a young god. They looked into one another's eyes;

then she accepted his invitation to dance.

Afterwards they sat together on a mossy knoll and talked low--all was

silent around, and the light of the stars was reflected in the

glow-worms, but the Princess did not tell him who she was; and when he

spoke of a quest on which he was about to start, to find his unknown

betrothed, who awaited him in a distant land, she wept. Her sweet tears

fell upon his hand, which he raised to his lips and reverently kissed

them there, and she smiled on him for doing so. But the smile faded as

an old woman came, and, plucking him by the sleeve, told him it was the

hour to go. And when the Princess was alone she felt as though she had

never known before what it was to be alone.

"... and she would be awakened by a king's son."

How long a time passed by she did not know. But again she saw the

handsome peasant youth. And her heart sank as she thought that her

release could come only through the kiss of some king's son who could

claim her for his wife. Then she pondered no more, for she saw the

traveller now, far, far away, where she could not get near him; and he

was in a forest path, wrestling with desperate fury with a giant who had

barred the way.

Breathlessly she watched the youth as he struggled in the brawny

monster's clutch. The Princess, moved by his stress, cried out in her

sleep. Then the rays of the noonday sun, redoubling their forceful heat,

shone forth with overpowering energy. The giant, struck with the pain of

it, clasped his hands to his head, and fell backwards like a log to the

ground.

The Princess knew that her love was safe, and by her fear for his

safety she knew, too, how dear he was to her. And she went on

dreaming--dreaming happily of what might be the future shared with one

she loved so much.

Her heart fluttered as with foreboding of evil. She beheld a range of

mountains, and up the foot of one of the peaks a peasant youth toiled

his weary course. But the mountain was so slippery that his efforts were

of no avail. As he gazed round she could see the handsome features,

clouded by fatigue that almost was despair. She saw that the mountain

was glistening, and that it was made of ice.

Then she felt the breath of summer. She saw it lift the white pall from

the earth--she saw it melt the belt of ice, and as she looked the

mountain dissolved into water under the warmth of her love. She saw that

he was safe, trudging over the carpet of cowslips, smiling as he went.

She wanted to run towards him, but he passed through a thicket and

disappeared from sight.

The Princess arose to follow him. But she lost her way, and wandered on

and on through a dense forest, where nothing stirred but scampering

hares and startled squirrels.

At last, towards evening, she came to a path all gay with glowing

flowers, refreshed by their evening bath of dew, and whispering to one

another a hushed good-night ere closing their eyes to the light. As the

Princess passed along, the strains of an organ fell upon her ear, and

she saw a great temple before her. She stood at the open door. Within,

hundreds of candles lighted the vast grey dome. And far beyond, in a

haze of mystery, stood the man she loved, and by his side his bride, all

veiled in white. And she knew his quest was done, and that he had found

her whom he had gone to seek. Then there was a stir in the multitude,

and a peal of bells rang out on the stillness without. The Princess sank

down and felt as though she swooned.

A kiss was on her lips, and she trembled, for she knew the moment had

come for the Prince to claim her. But the kiss was sweet. The Sleeping

Beauty came slowly back to consciousness; she awoke, and before her was

a tall knight in silver armour. His handsome features were lighted up

with joy: she knew him well, and, enfolded in his embrace, she murmured

happily:--

"It is you, O Prince, the youth of my dream!"

And the little briar rose peeped in at the turret casement and nodded in

the breeze at the lovers as they sat close clasped, and as the bells

pealed forth, told the news to the ivy, which told it to the jessamine,

until soon the tidings spread over the great city far and wide, and over

all the joyful land.

THE GAMEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

"Just run up to the Grange and tell her ladyship the bull-pup is doing

nicely, and that you bandaged its leg as she showed you. Make haste,

lass, if you're not too tired, as her ladyship would like to know before

she drives out."

"All right, Dad; I'll run. It's much too cold to walk."

Rogers, the gamekeeper, glanced with pride after the little retreating

figure, and then, as his old mother was standing in the draughty porch

awaiting him, he kissed her wrinkled face, and they entered the cottage

together.

Nancy was soon at the Grange, her cheeks aglow under the scarlet hood of

her cloak. New people were at the big house, and there seemed a deal of

bustle going on. She waited in the vestibule and stared at the

brightness, at the beautiful pictures and decorations where, ever since

she had known the Grange, all had been damp and decay. She had never

seen anything like this before, and she was enjoying the novelty, mixed

with awe at all the grandeur, when a little girl richly dressed, about

three years old, ran up to her. Nancy dropped a little bob of a curtsey,

as her grandmother had taught her to do to the gentry.

Little Iris was not at all shy, and was full of one thought only--the

thought of Christmas--so that she burst out with: "D'you know

to-morrow's Christmas Day?" and, without waiting for a reply, she

babbled on: "I'm going to have such boo'ful things--a dolly that sends

kisses, a pamberlator for her to ride in, a gold watch with real ticks,

and a titten with real scratches. Guess who'll bring them."

"Her ladyship?" ventured Nancy, dazzled at such a haul of magnificence.

"No, not Mummy," exclaimed Iris, capering with delight and revealing

more of her frills and laces.

"I can't guess, Miss," said Nancy, smiling through her diffidence--which

was just what Iris wanted her to say.

"It's Santa Claus! Santa Claus always brings me just what I want. Isn't

it clever?"

"Who's Santa Claus? Is it your aunt, Miss?"

"I'm 'peaking to you about Santa Claus--a gen'lman. I've not seen

him--never been able to catch him yet."

"Catch him! But who tells him what you want?" She was getting quite

interested.

"The little bird."

Nancy felt completely mystified. What a different world this seemed to

hers!

"What toys are _you_ going to get?" continued Iris.

"Oh, no _toys_. I live in the cottage in the forest. Dad is always so

busy, and I help him look out for poachers--so I have useful presents, I

don't have toys. Granny gave me this warm cloak last year; and then,

Dad's pockets get so full of sweets that they last for months."

"Sweets and useful things aren't p'esents," said Iris, surprised. "Poor

little girl! Wouldn't you like toys?" she added.

"I think so, Miss--at least, I've not seen many. Cousin Janey has a

skipping-rope and a workbox, but she won't let me touch them."

"Ah! you've been here long enough, Iris darling. I hear Nurse calling

you," exclaimed a soft voice, and her ladyship, with a kindly look at

the visitor, laughingly caught up her little daughter in her arms before

the child even knew she was there. Then she received the message, gave

the little messenger a slice of cake, and in a moment Nancy was

leisurely munching the fee as she trudged her way back on the grass

through the frosty park. The dusk was gathering, when suddenly in the

stillness she heard a dull thwack as of a stick against a branch--which

caused her to stop and listen. She knew what the sound meant.

"That's one of those poachers: he's knocked down a pheasant, I'll be

bound!" said the gamekeeper's daughter to herself. "I'll just be after

him!" and, gathering her skirts close around her, she crept through into

a thick plantation. She had the intrepid fearlessness of her father,

whose companion on his rounds she had been, when no danger was thought

to be afoot, ever since she was old enough to ride pickaback. It came

quite natural to her to help him, and though the old grandmother

grumbled at her boyish ways she said nothing, for the child was obedient

enough, and could read and write and sew; and, moreover, her son would

brook no interference with his treasure--especially since her mother had

died.

"Drop that!" cried Nancy. "Who's there?"

Hearing only a girl's voice, a rough-looking fellow emerged grinning

from behind a tree, with the dead bird he had just picked up in his

hand. A limp bag was slung over his shoulder, a stout staff was in his

other hand, and a snarling "lurcher" dog slunk at his feet.

"Steady, Muffins!" said the man, giving the cowering animal a gentle

kick as a reminder. "Now, Missy, what can I do for you?"

[Illustration: "_You can just hand over that pheasant_"]

"You can just hand me over that pheasant. Ah! it's you, is it? I know

you, Tom Grollins, and I'll report you to the gamekeeper."

The poacher gazed at her stupidly for a moment. "Give you the blessed

bird and be reported too, Missy? Come, that ain't 'ardly fair, is it?

(_Will_ yer lie down, Muffins?) Now look 'ere. If I give yer the bird,

will y'promise not to say a word as it was Tom Grollins--on yer davey,

now? Will y'promise, Missy?"

She nodded. Tom Grollins was not very strong of intellect, and he was a

known coward, and as the sound of a carriage was heard close by, the

bargain was hastily concluded; the pheasant was handed over without

further parley on the undertaking of the promise--"No names."

The promise, of course, Nancy faithfully kept when she delivered to her

father the bird she had demanded with such pluck and authority, and told

him how she had got it. The gamekeeper laughed, remarking that he

wouldn't press her, but could make a pretty shrewd guess if he chose.

However, she was worth her weight in gold, he said, and he patted her on

the head for a trump--and Nancy felt uncommonly proud. But she didn't

quite understand what he meant when he said that terms such as she had

made would not be quite approved of by the Lord Chancellor.

Then as Granny came in Nancy told of all she had seen, and of all the

wonderful presents the tiny lady at the Grange was going to receive at

Christmas, because she wanted them; and that a gentleman staying at the

house called Mr. Santa Claus gave them, and knew what to get, because a

bird--a parrot, she supposed--had heard and told him what the little

lady wanted.

That night when Nancy was in bed she could think of nothing else but

Santa Claus and the wonderful toys; and the thoughts were just beginning

to get confused with a greatly envied skipping-rope and workbox, when

she suddenly sat bolt upright in bed wide awake.

Her room was a tiny one leading off the kitchen, and in the moonlight

she had just seen Tom Grollins pass by--this time with a full bag on his

back, and the faithful Muffins was close at his heels.

"Well, I never did!" exclaimed Nancy, in her astonishment and vexation

unconsciously quoting her grandmother; "I _never_ did! Now what's to be

done? Gran's no use--Dad's out. But Dad's sure to find that wicked

poacher," she reflected, on hearing the clock strike nine: "he's in the

forest, and can't be far." And she lay back, relieved at the thought

that her father had suspiciously refused the invitation of a shabby,

gaitered, and very doubtful sportsman, to drink Christmas in with

mulled beer at the village tavern. She had heard her father remark

afterwards that he wanted "to be within earshot of gunshot." So she

wouldn't worry, for Tom wouldn't get the things after all.

* * * * *

After a time Nancy changed her mind. As in a dream, but not feeling a

bit sleepy, she quickly donned her cloak, stealthily opened the kitchen

door so as not to disturb the old lady, and hastened out into the night.

Curiously enough, she didn't feel cold in the bleak air--and in her

hurry she never even noticed she was without shoes or stockings.

In front of her was a man, and she quickened her pace. She soon overtook

him--sooner than she expected, for dark clouds overshadowed the moon,

and she was at his side before she knew it.

"Tom Grollins!" she exclaimed, breathless and indignant: "how dare you!

I've caught you again!"

"I'm not Tom Grollins," replied her companion in a deep, manly voice, in

which a funny chuckle seemed to rumble.

For a moment the child hesitated. It certainly didn't sound like Tom

Grollins's whiny treble, but then--perhaps he was pretending, so as to

put her off.

"Yes, you are," she retorted firmly. "Now, what are you doing here?"

"It's a secret."

"You're after poaching again. I shall report you to Dad. And," she added

severely, "you've just got to give me this very minute all you've got in

that bag."

"All in my bag? Softly, softly: wouldn't that be highway robbery, with

threats?" answered the jolly voice, and with a laugh--"Oh, greedy!"

Nancy stopped and stared hard, but it was too dark for her to see him,

as she had done from her bed. He had stopped too.

"Who are you, then?" she asked lamely.

"Santa Claus," came the reply.

"Santa Claus!" repeated the child in astonishment.

The dark cloud-wrack happened to part, and Nancy saw towering above her

the dearest and most imposing old gentleman imaginable, with a large

smiling face and long white beard. White curly hair fringed his

holly-decked scarlet cap, and his long, loose, red coat revealed here

and there glimpses of scarlet plush beneath. Instead of rabbits and

pheasants, he was laden with the newest of toys; and as to Muffins, he

was nowhere to be seen--unless he was that toy-dog dangling from the

overflowing bag, and wearing a leather collar with bell attached, and

a leather muzzle that ought to allay the fears of the most nervous.

[Illustration: "_Who are you, then?_"]

"Yes, little woman, I am Santa Claus--himself!" he repeated, with his

jolly chuckle.

"I--I--beg your pardon," stammered Nancy, quite confused.

"It's all right," he replied good-humouredly. "Now shall I see you home

before I continue my rounds?"

"Oh, may I come with you?" The words had dropped out of her mouth before

she could stop herself.

Santa Claus shook his head. "Come with me, indeed? I should think not!

Come with me? 'Pon my word!" Then he hesitated and smiled, and said

kindly, "Well, come along, dear. You're a good, brave little girl. But

you must know I've never made such an exception before. However, it's so

odd to find a child who doesn't know me--even such a little village

mouse as you--that we must really make one another's acquaintance."

He drew Nancy under his cloak to keep her extra warm, and to hide her

from view, and he showed her how she could peep out. Then he took her by

the hand, and the quaint pair proceeded along the mysterious-looking

forest until they came to the part Nancy loved best. There, heaps and

heaps of fir-trees grew, the tall ones protecting the wee ones, and the

wee ones doing their best to try and grow tall too.

Santa Claus stood still, and looked around, as if in preparation of some

important matter. Nancy felt something was going to happen, and she

peered up into the face of her guide.

"Father Christmas has come!" he proclaimed loudly at last.

And then what a change there was! The fir-trees all became

Christmas-trees, lighted each one--big and little--with candles, blue or

green, yellow or red, each burning with the same coloured light. And

from the diamond-frosted branches hung toys innumerable. At the top of

each tree stood triumphant a fairy-doll with wand outstretched.

Nancy clasped her hands with rapture at the sight. "Oh, Santa Claus!"

was all she could exclaim.

He lifted her on to his shoulder, and let her gaze until she had gazed

enough. Now, indeed, she realised what toys were--whence they came, and

how they grew.

Then she felt he was carrying her away, and her heart beat with

curiosity and excitement, for she knew Santa Claus was proceeding on his

rounds to pay visits to all the sleeping children who deserved it, while

she was clinging to his dear old neck, and would see all that went on.

The first visit was to Iris at the Grange, whither Santa Claus was

already on his way. They entered the pretty bedroom, where the spoilt

little lady was smiling in anticipation in her sleep; and the "dolly,

pamberlator, watch, and titten with real scratches" (immovably asleep)

were all produced as though by some conjuring trick from Santa Claus's

basket or deep pockets, and duly placed to meet the child's eager glance

on her waking.

"Mr. Santa Claus," whispered Nancy, who had been wondering all the time,

"how did we get here?"

"Chimney!" he whispered back.

"Chimney?"

Santa Claus nodded.

This didn't make her much wiser, for to her knowledge she had never seen

the inside of a chimney in her life; but she forgot to pursue the

subject now that something more interesting was going on.

Iris had vanished, and a pale little boy lay asleep in a room above a

flower shop.

"He doesn't care for toys," whispered Santa Claus; "he loves that pink

geranium by his side." And a gaily painted watering-pot was placed next

to his flowering possession. "How white in comparison with the blossom

the suffering, pinched little face looks on the pillow!" thought Nancy;

"he _will_ be pleased." Before they left, Santa Claus filled the can

with water from the cracked toilet jug.

In the large house across the way were sounds of bright music--a party

was going on.

"I'm afraid it's too early to go there yet," said Santa Claus,

consulting his great watch. "However, we'll go and see; it's really high

time for all youngsters to be in bed." In the night-nursery were two

cots. Both were empty. "I must call on my way back," he said.

Just then the door opened, and childish voices were heard shouting:

"Santa Claus! We'll catch him if we're quick!"

And there was only just time for the two travellers to disappear before

the lights were turned up and the owners of the cots rushed in.

"Nearly caught that time!" exclaimed Santa Claus, as they proceeded on

their way (it was extraordinary how alert and agile he was for such an

old and portly gentleman), and he burst out into a loud laugh, and only

recovered from it as they entered a long room full of small beds. It was

decorated with holly and mistletoe. A light burned at one end, where sat

a pleasant-looking nurse half-screened in the corner by the fire.

Nancy followed Santa Claus's movements with breathless interest as he

flitted to each little sleeping occupant of the hospital ward--for such

it was--placing here a toy horse of skin and harness with a long wavy

tail; there a lovely picture-book with a green cover, on which the

title was printed in large gold letters.

Twice only did Nancy heave a little sigh, quickly repressed, and her

eyes filled with longing: once when a skipping-rope was loosely tied

round the clasped hands of a little girl who was convalescent, and was

going to leave, as Santa Claus explained; and once again when, creeping

on tiptoe, he placed under the chair of the dozing nurse a very smart

workbox, with the name engraved on top.

Every now and then Santa Claus would linger to smooth the look of pain

from a little suffering face into a smile, or touch with his cool palm a

little fevered hand.

As she trotted round with him, tears of pity and happy sympathy filled

Nancy's eyes, and she tried to give Santa Claus a good hug--only she

couldn't reach half-way round--while he tenderly wiped those tears on

his big cuff, and carried her off, a long way, to a very poor cottage.

There they peeped round from behind the door.

Everything looked bright, and sounded happy too, and every now and

again, amid the laughter and the chatter, the arrival of Santa Claus was

gaily prophesied. Three little girls were dancing round three of those

tiny decorated Christmas-trees Nancy had seen that eve, and their

parents, looking on happily, echoed their exclamations of joy. She was

surprised to see so much jollity in so poor a place; but Santa Claus

didn't seem to be so--he merely muttered, "It's all right this year!"

and withdrew with her the same way they had come.

"And now," remarked Santa Claus cheerily, "before I go back to the party

children or do anything else I must visit all the other hospitals. I've

brought you home because you must be very tired, little woman. I'm

terribly busy to-night--half afraid I shan't get it over in time: just

think of the disappointment if I don't! So good-night, Nancy! Pleasant

dreams! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"

And his kind face bent over her in bed, as it had over so many others

that Christmas Eve; and as he pressed her hand he added, with a smile,

"I've a terrible lot to do, and I mustn't forget _anybody_!"

The dawn heralded once again a Christmas Day, and when the sun peeped

forth he awoke Nancy. She looked round, and uttered a cry of surprise

and delight. For before her astonished eyes she seemed to see a little

fairy-land all to herself. Grouped about her bed were a skipping-rope, a

workbox--both handsomer than Janey's--and a little box besides. She

couldn't believe they were real, so she felt them all over, and not only

found they were quite real, but the little box when it was touched sent

forth the most lovely, mysterious music.

"Dear, kind, darling Santa Claus!" exclaimed Nancy. Then she saw that

beside them there was also a plum pudding with a Christmas card

attached, from the new mistress of the Grange. What was puzzling was

that on a chair close by hung three pairs of her father's new socks with

a paper asking her to mark them; but they were marked already, and were

full of good things to eat.

Never in all her nine years had Nancy had such a Christmas. After saying

her morning prayers, she sat down at the table, where, with elbows

outspread and her little tongue peeping out as she moved her pen, she

wrote the following letter:--

"DEAR MR. CLAUS,--Thank you very much for those lovely

presents: I like them very much. And thank you for the lovely

time I had going about with you last night. I shall never

forget it. Please forgive me for thinking you were the wicked

poacher, Tom Grollins. I must now say good-bye.

"I send you 200 kisses (x x x etsetra).

"Your grateful little friend,

"NANCY ROGERS."

And then she addressed it to him at the Grange.

When Nancy had stamped and posted it, her grandmother and her father

came in to breakfast, and received Nancy's grateful thanks, for she wore

a pretty new frock. Then she told them that as she had hurried back

from the post-box, so as not to be late for breakfast, she had heard the

head gardener say to the butler that Tom Grollins had been seen that

night striding quietly along with a big bag well stuffed.

"But, Dad," continued his daughter with conviction, "it isn't true. I'm

sure it's a mistake."

"Why isn't it true, lass?" inquired her father. "It's likelier to be

true than not."

"Because I made the same mistake myself," said Nancy.

"Well, it would take a good deal to persuade me that my little meeting

with that slippery rascal turned out to be a mistake!" exclaimed the

gamekeeper, as he set down his cup and smiled with satisfaction. "When

did you meet him, little woman?"

"Last night."

"And who do you fancy it was, dearie?" asked the old grandmother.

"I _know_ who it was, Gran. It was Mr. Santa Claus!" As they smiled

still, she ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to show.

And Nancy knew she was right, and that it _was_ Santa Claus, for nothing

more was heard of the poacher Tom Grollins for ever so long, and every

one Nancy asked seemed to know all about Santa Claus having been on his

rounds that night--even those who hadn't seen him.

[Illustration: _She ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to

show_]

ALL ON A FIFTH OF NOVEMBER

MORNING

It might have been the middle of the night; but it wasn't--it was Guy

Fawkes' Day, and eight o'clock on a foggy morning. The London square was

more than usually hushed and mournful, except for a warning call or

whistle as a van cautiously lumbered along, or blundered on to the

pavement. The nursery fire did its best to look cheerful: the lights

were all on too, showing up the bright pictures on the walls and the

bright faces of the three children who were chattering gaily at the

breakfast-table. And they all looked so smart! Alec and Frank in their

best suits, and tiny Molly wore her prettiest white frock and her coral

necklace, just as if she were going to a party.

They soon scrambled off their chairs, and Molly, standing on tiptoe,

seized hold of a bunch of lilies tied up with ribbon that was on the

side table, and each of her brothers eagerly possessed himself of a neat

brown paper parcel.

It was Father's birthday. The occasion was always kept as a holiday, and

the children were waiting for his call to summon them to his

dressing-room.

"I think he must be fifty!" remarked Alec.

"I fink he's fifteen," said their little sister.

She spoke in a tone of conviction, accompanied by a toss of her short

curls.

"Don't be silly, Mollikins," replied the boys with a laugh; but she said

she was sure she was right.

"Halloa, Kidlets! Come along down!" came the shout of a manly voice.

There was a stampede, and a race as to who should get there first. Molly

arrived a bad third, but it was she who was first for him, for he went

towards her and picked her up. She put her free arm around his neck, but

instead of making him her little speech she exclaimed as he kissed her--

"Why, Daddy, your chin is full of splinters!"

The boys delivered their presents, and were kissed or patted on the

head, and thanked, before Molly parted with the flowers which she held

so tightly in her little fist.

"Your Babyship is very kind," said her father, gratefully shaking her by

the hand, and, laughing still, he put her down. Then he took her hint,

and seriously began to shave.

They knew they mustn't talk to him whilst that important function was

proceeding, so the three stood still, deeply absorbed as they watched

the performance that fascinated them with its dangers and its

hairbreadth escapes.

"_Now_ I can kiss my little Mollikins and she won't complain." He put

down the towel, took her up again, and rubbed his smooth cheek against

hers.

"Daddy, tell me how old you are," she asked, looking into his eyes.

"Oh, how can I do that? It's a secret."

"Do whisper it," she coaxed. After a moment's hesitation he smilingly

whispered something into her ear.

"Oh, what a 'tock of years!" she exclaimed.

"What is it?" clamoured Alec. "I'm sure I'm right."

"I'm sure I am!" asserted Frank.

"I _know_!" cried the delighted Molly, bursting with importance. "May I

tell?" Her father nodded. "Twenty-one!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

"Bosh! Why, he said he was that last year!" cried Frank.

"And the year before," asserted Alec; "and the year before that--I

remember quite well. Father always says that."

"Guy!" called their mother just then. "Please send the children in to

me." She was having her morning tea, so the young people ran into the

adjoining room to hug her and be hugged in return.

NOON

"Sun's tum out!" announced Molly, as she toddled away from the nursery

window.

"Hooray!" shouted Frank. "It's going to be fine for this evening!"

There were going to be great doings. Father's birthday and Guy Fawkes'

Day made a grand double event long looked forward to with enjoyment.

"Hooray!" echoed Alec rather feebly, for he was desperately busy.

Outside--now that the fog had lifted--the busy hum could be heard of

everyday life, mingled with boys' shouts as they trundled a guy about.

"I've found something out!" suddenly exclaimed Alec in a curious voice,

and he spread out on the table the front page of an old _Times_. "Look

here, Frank!" he continued in growing excitement. "Here, under the

Births--marked with red pencil--'Guy Thompson!' That's Father--here's

the date. Wait a moment. Now I'll reckon it out. Hush! Don't say

anything while I do the sum. _I say!_ Father _is_ twenty-one!"

"_I_ knew it!" exclaimed Molly, capering about. "I told you so."

"Rubbish!" said Frank. "Molly, do shut up. Alec, where did you find that

paper? How did it come here?"

"I found it there, on the rocking-chair. It looks old, and it _is_ old.

See, here's the date. It's very funny! I wish we could find out--it

_would_ be jolly to find out all by ourselves, if this really can be

true. I say, I know who'd tell us. I've heard all about Somerset

House--where you can get to know about people and their affairs--only I

don't know where the place is, or who lives there."

"An omlibus will take us anywhere," spoke up Molly.

"Who's _us_?" inquired Frank scornfully.

"Never mind _her_," said Alec excitedly. "I'll tell you what. Listen:

this afternoon, when we've got to be in the play-room, let's go in a cab

to Somerset House, and just get to know once for all. I've got four

shillings in my money-box; what have you got?"

"I'll count." Frank counted up to five shillings.

"The man may want more. Mollikins, what have you got in your purse?"

"Dot sixpence."

"Well, if you pay your share, we'll take you with us--that is, if you

can put on your own hat. I can help you with your coat." And so it was

arranged.

And at three o'clock that cold afternoon Alec, Frank, and Molly might

have been seen stealing forth into the keen air; they were supposed to

be playing at marbles in the garret or they might have been seen, and

packed back again. The boys were well muffled up, and Molly had her hat

on with the back to the front. The three were in high spirits once they

were off, and they realised the full importance of such an adventure. In

Alec's hand was the sheet of newspaper in which the truth of the

paragraph was to be tested. Alec hailed the first cab, the driver shook

his head. The second paid no attention. The third asked them who they

thought they were getting at and where they thought they were going to.

"Somerset House!" ordered Alec, after quickly lifting Molly in, and

Frank had closed the door smartly. On the way there they behaved much

better than they usually did when they drove out. No one fidgeted; no

one complained of feeling hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or anything.

When they alighted the cabman was told to wait. Molly and her brothers

passed through the imposing gateway of Somerset House, and were starting

to cross the quadrangle, when they saw the Beadle in his fine uniform

(whom they took to be the Duke), and learned from him where they could

find the room of which they were in search.

"Births, please," said Alec, bold as brass, to the gentleman behind the

counter. He was leader and spokesman whenever they went shopping, and he

was leader and spokesman to-day. Frank never interfered. And Molly had

gone stonily shy. "Births, please," repeated Alec, impatient at being

stared at.

"What name?" said the gentleman, looking at them amused.

"Thompson," replied Alec.

"Any particular Thompson? You see, we may have several Thompsons in our

entries--five or six at least."

"This is Mr. Guy Thompson," said Alec, showing the marked paragraph.

"Very well," said the gentleman (who, thought Alec, must be the Duke's

butler). "But have you got the fee?-the half-crown you must pay for the

search?"

"A half-crown's very dear," said Alec. "Can't you do it for less?"

The gentleman looked at them with kindly eyes. "I dare say I can," he

replied, putting his hand in his pocket, and rattling some coins. "But

I'm afraid you'll have to pay a shilling. The King wants one." They paid

their shilling for the King; watched while the gentleman looked up his

records, and followed him into the corridor as he prosecuted his search.

At last he said--

"Quite right. Born on the fifth of November: year's all right. It's all

in order."

"Then Father _is_ twenty-one?" queried both boys doubtfully.

Molly hopped on one foot in suppressed excitement.

"_Your father!_" exclaimed the kindly clerk, handing back the coin.

"Why, how old are you?"

"Ten," replied Alec. "Thank you."

"And so your father married at the age of ten or thereabouts, did he?

Dear me; very precocious of him!" exclaimed the clerk, with such a

serious face that the children felt quite uncomfortable. They had not

considered the matter in that light at all. Their faces fell, and they

felt such a wish they had never come that without a word of explanation

they turned and fled. They were glad to be once more outside the

building, and thankful to find the cabman still there waiting to take

them back, and in their discomfiture he was hailed by them joyfully as a

dear old friend.

"Home!" said Alec, when they were inside.

"And where might that happen to be?" asked the driver with interest.

Molly, womanlike, jumped at a conclusion. "We're lost!" she wailed, and

burst into tears, and it was only when she was in sight of her own

nursery windows that she was comforted, and smiled once more. Without

any inquiry, all their remaining savings were emptied into the willing

palm of the delighted driver, who bowed his acknowledgments repeatedly.

The children ran through the garden entrance unobserved, and had just

got their outdoor things off when the tea-bell rang.

NIGHT

When Alec, Frank, and Molly entered the drawing-room, where their

parents were in readiness, for the great annual frolic with Father, they

didn't tumble in as was their usual habit; they walked in sedately. They

had something important to say.

"Truly, Daddy, how old are you?" asked Molly, running up to him. She

wouldn't be hushed down by the boys. She felt she wanted to make sure of

what she already knew.

"I told you I was twenty-one, of course! One always expects such a nice

lot of presents when one is twenty-one! But you two young rascals

evidently think I really must be a very old man of forty at least!" he

replied, smiling.

"And does he never grow older, Mummy?"

"I don't see it, Molly darling."

"Do you ever see the _Times_, boys?" he inquired.

"That's just what's so queer," said Alec. "I've got it here." Alec

noticed the glance which his parents exchanged, and their expression of

astonishment when Frank remarked--

"We took it with us this afternoon to Somerset House."

"Yes," corroborated Alec.

"Me, too," chimed in Molly.

And then they told of all they had done, and their parents tried to look

grave, but couldn't, and could scarcely speak for laughing, though they

extorted a promise that nothing of the kind should ever again be

attempted without permission.

"Surely, what is in the _Times_," reasoned their father, "must be

true--at least one must presume so."

"Halloa," broke in Alec. "I say, Frank! Look here! This Guy Thompson was

born in Cambridge Square! I never noticed that. Weren't you born in

Oxford Square, Father?"

"Well, I think I might just as well have been born in one as in the

other. All I know is, that if I _was_ twenty-one, I am twenty-one--_and_

the rest--you never asked me how many more. Come along, boys, now for

our cushion-fight! But first of all, here are your expenses back

again--your Babyship, there's your sixpence--and now I really can't wait

any longer for a romp!"

Soon the room was gay with laughter. Father, too, had to be a real guy

and a "pretend" one, pushed about in the arm-chair with a funny long

nose spoiling his jolly face. And afterwards they all danced whilst

their mother played a hornpipe--and really it _was_ very difficult to

guess Father's years, they might have been anything!

Then he suddenly ran out. There was a rush to the window, the blind was

drawn up, and soon, in the darkness of the night, a grand

catharine-wheel was seen whizzing round in a blaze of dripping fire.

Then such a glorious shoot of rockets arose! Whish! bang! whish! bang!

they went as they burst, each of them, into a shower of gorgeous stars

all purple, and green, and gold.

"A--a--h!" exclaimed the three children, gazing with rapture. And--

"A--a--h!" they repeated over and over and over again, as splendour

followed splendour, and the sky was powdered again and again with sparks

of coloured fire.

FATHER CHRISTMAS AT HOME

TWILIGHT

It was afternoon on a cold December day. Eva, all alone in the

schoolroom, sat down on the hearthrug and looked thoughtfully into the

fire. She was, however, not quite alone, for her tiny Yorkshire terrier

sprang on her lap, and after turning round and round, pawing at her

frock as though to make a comfortable hollow, settled cosily down.

"Dot," she said, smoothing the hair back from its eyes, "I'm very

miserable. To-morrow is Christmas Eve, and every one is happy except me.

I'm in trouble again. Somehow, I'm always in trouble--I've spoilt my

velvet frock washing your feet--and you didn't want them washed, did

you?" The Honourable Dot--to give it its full title--looked desirous of

forgetting the incident, then licked her hand as a reply seemed

expected.

"Perhaps if I had some brothers and sisters they'd get into mischief

sometimes, and it wouldn't always be me." Dot paid no heed to her

grammar, was bored, and sighed heavily.

"I really didn't mean it when I said, 'I gloried in being naughty.'

Don't snore, Honourable! There'll be complaints from next door."

It was curious, but Eva was having remorse, brought on by all the talk

of Peace and Goodwill which was in the air. "I've tried things before,"

she muttered; "but I know what I'll do this time," she exclaimed, "I'll

give a cot to a hospital!"

The little dog growled a protest as she suddenly got up from the floor.

Eva counted the money in her money-box. "I've five shillings all but

three farthings. I'm sure that is nothing like enough!" she mused. "It

must cost at least a million sterling pounds!" Tears came into her eyes,

but they flowed down on to a smile, as she thought of some one who

always managed to do kind deeds and who might help her. Father

Christmas! Eva thought of asking no less a person than Father Christmas

himself to advise her. But how to find him and get a nice quiet chat

with him was the difficulty. That he would come to her on Christmas Eve

she had no doubt, as he never forgot her; but she had only managed to be

awake and see him once, a long time ago, and then she but got a glimpse

of him, for he rushed out of her room as though in a terrible hurry.

Dot's little mistress slept badly that night; she was racking her brain

as to how she could manage to remain awake so as to see Father

Christmas when he came, and then how she could coax him to stay for a

talk--for she knew quite well how busy he must be when he was on his

rounds.

The following afternoon, during a general rummage that was going on to

find tiny candles and coloured glass balls that were over from last

year's Christmas tree, Eva picked up a scrap of printed paper, which had

come out of an old cracker. She took it upstairs to her favourite spot

on the hearthrug, and read it aloud to Dot:--

"Father Christmas sends this note

From out his mansion by the moat,

To all who live on land and sea,

To honour Christmas Day with glee--

Inviting them to pass his way,

With glee to honour Christmas Day."

Eva flushed with excitement. "Why, it's a message from him!" she cried.

"It's some kind of invitation!" and she gave Dot such a squeeze of

delight that the little creature squeaked shrilly, scurried off, and

laid low under the table.

She thought and puzzled and pondered over the lines she had just read.

At last she grasped their meaning. "Of course! How simple, after all!"

she concluded. "He lives at some moated house, and I must go to him, not

wait for him to come to me. He always comes down the chimney--that's

the way I must go up!"

Eva didn't hesitate a moment. The opportunity had come for which she

longed. She ran downstairs into the large, old-fashioned hall, which was

overheated as usual, by the hot-air pipes, for the huge chimney-place

was too much of a curiosity ever to be used. Here, she felt sure, was

the starting-point of her adventure.

Luckily no one was about. It was windy when she looked up the great

chimney, so she took her long, fair hair, and made it into a loose plait

in order to keep it from blowing about her face. Then she prepared to

start and secure the first footing.

Eva had never been up a chimney before, and when she began climbing she

was quite surprised to find how nice and clean it was, with steps, and

all white tiles. She toiled up, and up, and could see blue sky and

fleeting white clouds above. After a time she stopped to rest in a

little recess in the chimney side. When she started climbing again, the

blue sky faded away, twilight came on, and in this very, very long

chimney the light became quite dim.

Very soon, however, she felt with a little thrill of pleasure the keen

air all around her head and shoulders, and she knew she had come to the

top. Fortunately there was a ladder--already placed for Father

Christmas to mount--and down that she went, looking below all the time

so as not to make a false step. It was a very, very long ladder indeed,

and Eva began to think she would have to go on stepping down for ever,

when at last she found herself on the ground again--in a country field

with hoar frost stiffening the blades of grass, across which she ran

straight ahead as hard as ever she could go.

STARLIGHT

Once only did she halt by the side of a lane to consider what she should

do if she couldn't find her destination after all. Two robins alighted

in front of her, hopped about, and fluttered forward; they were so

persistent that they interested her and she followed them. They flew

along a side path, and Eva ran after them--ran till she arrived eager

and breathless at a wooden bridge, and found that she was in a park;

that above her was the dark vault of heaven decked out in all its

diamonds; that the bridge led across a moat; and that in front of her

was a splendid old country mansion brilliantly lighted up, where the

robins alighted on a window-sill, and paying no further attention to

her, busied themselves with crumbs.

[Illustration: _It was a very, very long ladder_]

Then Eva advanced, almost in spite of herself, went up the front steps,

and standing on tiptoe, lifted the knocker and let it fall. The knocker

resounded for a while musically, like a peal of bells; when they ceased,

the door opened, and a very ancient man confronted her. He was tall and

thin and bent, and was dressed in draperies, with bare legs, and he had

a funny little curl in the middle of his bald forehead.

"Is Father Christmas at home, please?" faltered Eva.

"Yes, little Madam," came the reply. "Do you want to see him? Really?

But you will be astonished--I warn you. Aren't you frightened?"

"Not a bit," replied Eva.

"Brave little girl!" said the very ancient man. "Come in!" and he

ushered her into an old oak-panelled room. It had a delicious sense of

comfort, and a delight about it which, for the moment, she didn't try to

define. Her attention was attracted by catching sight of what she

thought was her own reflection in the large mirror against the wall--it

was a little girl who came in at the same time, and was of exactly her

own height. As she looked closer she saw that the other child was uglier

than herself, unkind in expression, slovenly in appearance, and tried to

hide herself, rather, in the dark corner where she remained. And Eva,

in the novel surroundings, soon forgot all about her.

At the far end was a great log fire, and near it a huge arm-chair, in

which sat a stout, healthy, red-faced old gentleman warmly wrapped in a

crimson dressing-gown; he was leaning back, thinking or dozing. Eva

advanced with soft steps. She was full of eagerness and excitement, for

she recognised the white-bearded, handsome old face at once from the

many coloured portraits she had seen. It was Father Christmas himself!

Eva never knew what impelled her to do it, but when she got close to him

she simply threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Father Christmas, starting; and catching her

up, he seated her on his knee. He recognised her at once. "How you've

grown since last year, Eva!" and he looked at her with beaming eyes. "I

suppose you know you're trespassing? and the penalty is forty crackers

or a kiss!" And he chuckled and laughed so merrily that she felt quite

comfortable, finding trespassing a very pleasant occupation, and wasn't

a bit alarmed at the penalty.

"And what brings me this honour?" he continued.

"Good evening, Father Christmas," spoke up Eva quite boldly. "I'm afraid

I disturbed you."

[Illustration: "_I suppose you know you're trespassing?_"]

"Oh yes, you've disturbed me all right," he replied briskly, "but I was

only resting a little after my labours before going on my rounds

to-night."

"What labours?"

"Toys. Toys and sweets. I've been making toys and things all the year

through, and have only just got them finished in time. I love making

crackers, too; I spend all my evenings writing mottoes for them."

"I found your invitation, Mr. Christmas."

"Bless me! did you now? Ah!" He stroked his beard thoughtfully for a

moment and remained silent. Eva looked about her in amazement.

"Those are all secrets!" he observed after a time. Father Christmas

included with a sweep of the arm the toys which were everywhere

about--hanging from the ceiling, lying about on the tables and sofas,

standing as ornaments on the mantelpiece, filling the shelves of the

bookcases, peeping from behind the glass cabinets--toys wherever one

looked.

He arose, and taking her by the hand, led her round to enjoy the pretty

sight; and paying no attention whatever to the sullen little girl in the

corner, he asked Eva if she would like to see around his domain. "Oh

yes, yes," she cried. She quite appreciated the special honour that was

being done her.

"They'll be coming in here soon to pack," he added. "I'm going to leave

all these secrets myself at their destinations."

There was a tremendous bustle going on at the rear of the premises,

where a whole army of packers, carriers, postmen, and porters were

hurrying about letting down toys from the loft, packing them, labelling

them to places far and wide; loading them on huge vans which came

rumbling in and out of the courtyard with cracking of whips, and parting

shouts of "Good luck!"

Superintending the arrangements, walking to and fro, was the very

ancient man. He was so alert, and always on the spot where wanted, yet

Eva was thinking his age must at least be two hundred, when Father

Christmas said kindly: "My dear, this is my father--he is known as

Father Time, and you have known him without having really met him face

to face before."

"I didn't recognise him, and I didn't know he was your father, sir," she

whispered.

"Why, yes. Don't you know that my full name is Christmas Time?"

"Of course it is," she exclaimed with a laugh.

The next visit was through a covered way to the printing works--where

the mottoes and "directions" for toys and Father Christmas's visiting

cards were printed. These cards were all different in design, and each

was a beautiful picture stamped with his name, and his own motto, "Peace

and Goodwill."

Behind was the sweet factory, with its tempting packets and muslin

stockings of all sizes full of sugar-plums. But, as Father Time

appeared, Father Christmas whispered that he feared they must not

linger, and led the way up a spiral staircase in order to enable Eva to

have a peep into the toy-loft, where men were letting the toys down into

the busy yard below. How she would have loved to stay longer in each

delightful place, but without a murmur she followed her guide below and

back to the oak-panelled room. It looked so bare and different without

the toys--much like any ordinary room.

"And now, my dear," he said, "you must excuse me for a short time, as I

must go upstairs and get ready."

"Please, ought I to be going?" she asked politely.

"No, no. Not yet." And he went away, up the grand staircase, to his

bedroom. There he took from the drawer his scarlet fur-lined cloak and

hood with wide swansdown trimming, which had been put away in lavender,

chose his thickest top-boots, and humming a song, proceeded to array

himself for the long, cold journey in store for him that night.

Meanwhile, the moment he left his little visitor downstairs, the

strange-looking child approached her.

"What's your name?" asked Eva pleasantly.

"Eva," came the surly reply.

"Why, that's my name!"

"Of course. I know you, I know you through and through--good and

bad--and I wish I didn't."

"You're a horrid story-teller," said Eva angrily.

"Supposing I am! It's easier to tell stories than to tell the truth.

Saves a lot of trouble. Besides, it's nice. You know that as well as I

do."

Eva would have liked to deny it, only she felt too scornful. "_Saves_

trouble?" she said to herself. "_Makes_ trouble." But she flushed as she

remembered she had once thought that too, but only for a moment; and she

was ashamed of it now. She was ruffled and uncomfortable at the

proximity of this horrid girl, who now said slyly: "Look over there in

that cupboard, there's a doll that has been forgotten. I want it, and

I'm going to take it and hide it under my pinafore."

"You mayn't--you mustn't!" cried Eva. "It would be stealing."

"I don't care. Father Christmas won't know."

"Yes, he will. I shall tell him!"

"Then I'll say it was given to me."

"You horrid girl! You dreadful story-teller!"

"Don't be silly. What does it matter telling stories and stealing, so

long as you're not found out?"

"It's just as bad if you're not found out. But you are _bound_ to be

found out," cried Eva, in horror and disgust as she saw her approach the

coveted treasure. "I tell you, wicked people are always found out; they

never escape unpunished."

"I want it, and I'm going to have it."

"You mustn't. Come away--you shan't!" shouted Eva, running after her;

and she seized her by both wrists. "Come away! Oh, do come away!"

"You fool! leave me alone. Get away!" and with a scoffing laugh the girl

shook herself free, sprang on a sofa, opened the cupboard, and stretched

out her hand.

Without a word Eva threw herself upon her, slammed-to the glass door,

and in the struggle they fell together on the floor. There was a crash

of broken glass, and through the noise Eva heard the voice of her

opponent saying faintly: "Let me go! You have won!"

When she got up, carefully shaking the bits of glass from her frock, and

looked round, the horrid little girl had disappeared. The next moment

her host stood in the doorway with a curious smile on his face.

"I'm going now," he said; "will you come?"

"Oh, please, Father Christmas," exclaimed Eva ruefully, as she looked at

the glass on the floor, "do wait! I want to explain something--I----"

"I can't keep my father waiting," he answered gently. She followed him

to the front door. There in the frosty night a beautiful sledge was in

waiting, hung with baskets and sacks overflowing with toys and sweets.

Father Christmas took his seat and beckoned to Eva. To her joy he lifted

her on to his lap and wrapped his great coat about her. Father Time, who

was on the box, shook the reins, and the two reindeer, impatient to be

off, sped rapidly away amid the jangling of bells, carrying the

travellers over the bridge, through the park, past holly and fir trees

all powdered with glistening frost, out over the country into the

bright, crisp night.

MOONLIGHT

There was Eva with Father Christmas, all snug amongst his soft furs, on

his rounds. "Why do you take some toys yourself," she asked, "and send

others away in the great carts?"

"Those in the carts are for my export and wholesale trade--shops, and so

on; these _I_ take are for my special favourites. You're on my list, my

dear, you know." Eva's heart was full of tenderness and pride, but tears

were in her eyes as she said, peering appealingly into his kind face--

"May I whisper something?"

He bent his head--and she whispered.

"Bless my soul!" was all Father Christmas replied, but he looked very

pleased and jolly.

"And I should like to pay for it," continued Eva; "I've got five

shillings all but three farthings."

"Never mind about that, my dear."

"But I'm sure I ought," she replied dubiously. "Dear Father Christmas,

you are always doing kindnesses; could you tell me how to do something

like giving a cot to a hospital, or a free library, or something? That's

what I really came to ask you about, only I forgot it until now. I'm so

often in trouble, and I've so often tried to do some good, but it

doesn't come off somehow," and she sighed.

"What you ask me is a secret," he answered. "Some people are quick to

find it out for themselves. Some people never find it out. But I will

tell it to you, dear, because I know that by to-morrow you will be on

the high road to guessing it. It is this: You need not give things. You

needn't try to be good. Try only not to be troublesome. If you are

sweet, and gentle, and kind, you give happiness--not only do you give

it, but you can then only find happiness yourself." Somehow, it didn't

sound a bit like a sermon; it was more like being told the delightfully

easy answer to a difficult sum. Eva nestled closer to her dear old

friend as she listened--it was all so peaceful, reassuring, and

soothing.

[Illustration: _The two reindeer ... sped rapidly away_]

The moon was shining down on the sledge and its strange occupants, and

Eva was just going to ask if he could tell her who the other little girl

was, and all about her, when she felt her arms were being disengaged

from where they clung about him, and she found herself gently deposited

on firm ground, and alone.

* * * * *

The Honourable Dot barked with delight because it was Christmas Eve, and

it was going with its little mistress to dine downstairs; and very

joyful and succulent the event proved to be. Not long after, when it was

fast asleep in its basket, Eva was sitting up in bed waiting anxiously

to receive the visit of her recent host. Father Christmas had done her

so much good, and she wanted to tell him so, as she had had no

opportunity of doing before.

She was dropping asleep in that attitude, when she heard a slight noise.

Immediately she started up, and clutching tightly at a rapidly

retreating figure, she laughed aloud to find she had succeeded in

catching Father Christmas, who, mildly yielding to her entreaties, sat

down by her side.

"I have wakened you," he said regretfully.

"Oh no, I was waiting for you." And she told him about the happy time

she had spent with him, and thanked him nicely. "What a dreadful little

girl that other Eva was!" she concluded. "Who was she?"

"Ah," said Father Christmas very quickly, "she is what you might be were

you to give way to bad feelings. I wish you a Merry Christmas and a

Happy New Year, my dear!" and without explaining further he kissed her

and rapidly withdrew on his business.

DAYLIGHT

Outside the uncurtained window the sun was shining. Snow had been

falling softly, and was piled high on the sill. And over the hushed

landscape from the far distance the Christmas bells were ringing. Eva

joyfully hugged a large doll, which she had found asleep on her pillow.

It was only later, when she thought over past events in detail, that it

appeared to her, though she had not paid attention to it at the time,

that Father Christmas seemed ill at ease when he was _her_

visitor--perhaps it was because he was in a hurry. Somehow he was

different from the stout, merry-faced old gentleman she had been to see;

he had strangely shrunk to nearly as thin as her own father, and as

pale, comparatively, which she thought very odd.

And when she looked up into that wonderful and mysterious old chimney

again, she saw that it was all dark and black, and as uninviting as any

ordinary dirty old chimney; so that it was quite hopeless for her ever

to venture up it again to find old Father Christmas "At Home."

A BIRTHDAY STORY

If it had not been Maisie's birthday this story could never have been

written. But the day had come for her to be five years old, and, like

every child of that age, she could no more help having a fifth birthday

than she could imagine having it without a party. At present she was

unconscious of all the delights in store, because it was only just dawn,

and her curls were still tumbled about her flushed face on the pillow,

and her eyes were still fast closed in sleep.

But in a small bed quite close to hers there was a little girl, who was

very wide awake indeed, as she leant over with neck outstretched, gazing

eagerly at all the beautiful things so temptingly displayed on a table

at the foot of Maisie's cot--presents from every one in the house:

Hilda's box of beads bought with her own money; a long-promised

story-book resplendent in bright blue and brilliant in gold; some new

furniture for the doll's house; and a something that glittered

strangely--Hilda nearly toppled over in her curiosity to see it. She

found it to be a big red cracker with a funny coloured portrait of a

smirking crocodile stuck on the outside. "What lovely things!" she

thought, "and all for Maisie!"

In two months' time Hilda was going to celebrate _her_ birthday and be

eight years old, and have a fuss made over _her_. But two whole months

seemed such a long way off--such a very long time to wait! Into her dark

eyes there came a strange look of envy and longing, and her handsome

face with the resolute expression contrasted strangely with her sister's

as she turned anxiously towards the fair little sleeper.

Holding her breath, Hilda crept slowly down on to the floor, stealthily

approached the table, and seized the beautiful cracker. "Surely that

would not be missed," she reflected. Just then Maisie stirred uneasily,

which brought a flush of shame to the elder girl's cheeks; but hearing

nothing further, Hilda jumped into bed and pushed the cracker under her

own pillow. The crackling of the paper woke Maisie, who sat up, and in

the middle of a big yawn espied the table, and remembered the great

event. "Oh, Hilda," she exclaimed, "just look!" She was too excited as

she handled her treasures to notice that Hilda never stirred, that she

only answered shortly, "Yes, I know," and didn't even volunteer to say

whom the beads came from.

During the whole morning Maisie's excitement continued; she hopped about

everywhere, watching the arrangements for the afternoon party, and

chattering about who were coming; so much so, that do what she would,

Hilda could obtain no opportunity of being alone so that she might

satisfy her burning curiosity as to what was inside the cracker. She had

dropped it behind the toy-box in the nursery, and there it lay, whilst

all the time Maisie could not understand what made her sister so

restless and impatient.

Immediately after lunch, however, Hilda was able to satisfy her longing

at last. She picked up the cracker and hurriedly opened it. What first

came to light was a big sweet wrapped in a printed motto: "Always do

what is right and you will be happy." She read it with a pang of mental

shame, which was quickly followed by one of physical discomfort, for she

had popped the sweet into her mouth and now would as quickly have popped

it out again, only it was too late, as she had already swallowed the

horrid thing, which was filled with a liquid that tasted of bad scent.

Making a wry face, she rolled up the offending motto into a tiny ball

and threw it into the empty grate. Still, it was soothing to find in the

cracker a neatly rolled up packet of pink and green paper, which

evidently formed something amusing--a bonnet, a cap, or perhaps an

apron. At the same time she drew forth the "cracking thing," which she

loved to pull and hear it go "crack." But she always did so at arm's

length with her head turned away, and she was too frightened to pull it

all by herself.

Their nurse's voice was heard calling Maisie to come up and be dressed.

Hilda, with a guilty, conscience-stricken look, had barely time to throw

the useless "cracking thing" out of the open window, and to hide the

rest of the cracker in the first thing at hand (which happened to be the

doll's house), when they both entered laughing and carried her off too,

to be curled and be-ribboned for the party.

"I've seen my birthday cake, Hilda," cried Maisie, capering about. "It's

booful!" But Hilda still tasted that nauseous liqueur from the sweet,

and couldn't enter into any pleasing ideas of cake.

Ready first, she ran into the nursery, curious as ever as to the pink

and green paper bundle, took it out, unfolded it, and found that it

would have formed a crown--only it didn't join together; she had torn it

in her hurry. She stamped her foot with vexation, and was wondering if

she could stick the two ends together when that tiresome Maisie came

running in from the next room with one of her new bronze shoes on to

show how beautiful it looked. Quick as lightning Hilda had to hide her

secret again.

"What are you doing with the doll's house? Look at my new shoe!"

exclaimed Maisie all in a breath.

And Hilda made a great fuss over the new shoe, and felt horridly out of

temper.

Punctually on the stroke of three, the first of the birthday party began

to arrive--two little girl cousins, who at once begged to be allowed to

see if there was anything new in the doll's house. Hilda's heart sank at

these words, and she tried to draw their attention away, but to no

avail, for Maisie, moving towards it, said they must see the new

treasure there. With difficulty and something like a scuffle Hilda,

grown desperate, prevented her from opening it, and managed to do so

herself, quickly stuffing the bunch of paper into her pocket without

being noticed. Much admiration was bestowed on the new addition--a

little motor car which had been conveniently placed in the kitchen of

the doll's house ready to take out for an airing the little china lady

and gentleman who sat so rigidly and smiled so vacantly in the storey

above.

Meanwhile, Hilda was inwardly owning to a feeling akin to dislike for

the very thought of that cracker, for the paper was bulging out her

pocket, flatten it as she would. She was not happy, for never before had

she done anything underhand. In fact she always tried to be an example

for her young sister, and she already regretted having given way to the

momentary impulse of envy. However, there was no time now for thoughts

or remorse, and when she reached the drawing-room she forgot all about

her trouble in helping to receive the guests.

Eight little girls were grouped in one corner of the room whispering,

with eyes busily engaged staring at one another's sashes; whilst eight

little boys had flocked together and were looking sheepishly from out of

an opposite corner. One boy, however--who had been gazing long at

Hilda--with heroic resolution detached himself from his kind, and

entered the rival camp, where he was welcomed with pleasure and

interest. He was a young Highlander, with sandy hair and many freckles,

but his attraction was great, for he wore his native costume. The

jewelled hilt of a dagger showed above one plaid stocking, and on his

shoulder he wore a fascinating brooch with a large brown stone, which

was the envy and admiration of all the little ladies present.

Suddenly the guests were all swooped upon by a big lady, Maisie's

mother, mixed up, and disentangled into couples; a piano was set going,

and they danced, hopped, and twirled about, wondering if they liked it;

the girls thought they did, and the boys were sure they didn't--all

except the Scotch boy, who had constituted himself Hilda's devoted

partner, and was enjoying it immensely. The polka finished, these two

sat chatting merrily at the window, when all at once Hilda became

silent. She happened to catch sight of something sticking out of the ivy

on the sill. It was the "cracking thing" which she had thrown from the

window above. Her partner was surprised to see her look as though she

were going to cry. She didn't dare do that.

Just then tea was announced. Weighty recollection of warnings from

home-counsellors came to the minds of the children, which warnings,

however, conveniently faded away at sight of the good things set forth

so temptingly in the dining-room: custards, jellies, and all those

concoctions beloved of the youthful interior. But the chief interest

centred in Maisie's gorgeous cake, which had her name and age flowingly

written in coloured sugar, surrounded by the most realistic and sweetest

of red roses imaginable, nestling in the coolest-looking golden leaves.

Hilda sat by the side of her Scotch cavalier, who had taken her in, and

who was much concerned when he found that she had no appetite, but less

distressed when he found that that fact did not affect his.

Once during the meal, Hilda heard their mother ask Maisie, as she helped

her cut the birthday cake, what was in her cracker, and Maisie replied,

as she looked up from her struggles, "What cracker?" but then, in her

anxiety to know why Hilda refused to taste any of her cake till the

morrow, she did not pursue the subject.

After tea more excitement, for there was Mr. Punch and his company, who

were in excellent form.

"Oi, Oi, Oi!" repeated that gentleman for the dozenth time, as he bobbed

about aimlessly, in his anxiety to hit the clown and take the patient

Toby between his jointless arms.

Later on, the eyelids of the party children began to grow heavy, though

the eyes remained unnaturally bright; and tempers became less even and

more natural. And so, like everything else, the birthday party came to

an end, and "Good-byes" were said with regret. That night cots and beds

were not despised, nor did they prove unwelcome for once, for little

tired heads were rested gratefully on cool pillows. Maisie was an

exception; she tossed about on hers, too happy and excited to get to

sleep, whilst Hilda, worn out, lay on her back with her mouth wide open,

breathing heavily, and dreaming.

Hilda dreamt that she was alone in a boat on a ruffled lake. On a white

flag in the prow was a motto printed large, but upside down. She dreamt

that all around the frail craft, which rocked on the stormy waters, were

grinning crocodiles wearing broken crowns made of pink coral and green

fluttering paper. She crouched low and tried to hide, for she knew that

if the horrid creatures found her out she was lost for ever. Land was

quite close, but she didn't know how to get there, because her frock

was made of red crackling stuff, which glistened and made a noise

whenever she moved.

She felt sick with fright, and sobbed and moaned at her terrible plight,

and sobbing, she woke to find that it was quite dark, that the moon was

shining on Maisie smiling in her sleep, and that she herself had been

dreaming.

At breakfast next morning, Maisie and their mother were already seated

when Hilda silently took her place next her chattering little sister;

but it seemed to her that their mother looked unusually grave. When

Hilda lifted the cover off her bread and milk bowl, Maisie suddenly

looked in it and exclaimed: "Oh, how pretty." But Hilda turned very red,

and she hung her head ashamed. For in the bowl there was no bread and

milk--nothing but a crumpled red glazed paper with a hateful picture of

a smiling crocodile, something pink and green, a tiny paper ball of

printed paper, and a stiff thing sticking up--easily guessed at, but now

blurred and indistinct to Hilda's tearful view.

"Oh, Maisie," she sobbed, "it was your crack--cracker. I--I took it from

your table. Do forgive me--I've been so--so very miserable."

And their mother, rising gently and saying nothing, quickly took the

proofs of wrong-doing away, whilst Hilda felt Maisie's arm creep round

her neck and Maisie's kisses on her wet cheek....

And in her repentance her fault was forgiven.

Two months later, Hilda found amongst the presents on her birthday table

a lovely cracker made of silver paper with a little heart of real gold

attached with a blue ribbon on the outside. And then Hilda ran and

whispered eagerly in her mother's ear, who looked very pleased and

kissed her. And Maisie was surprised and happy too, for Hilda put in her

hand the lovely cracker with its little heart of gold for her very own

to keep.

LITTLE STARRY

"I should like to go shooting, and see what the earth is like," sighed a

young star. But the Evening Star knew that meant many dangers, for down

there life was not so happy or serene as up in their lofty sphere. And

she knew, too, that he would go his own way as youth always does; and

she felt sorry, for she did not like to part with this bright little

star. And so he went. That fine crisp night the tiny star was seen to

shoot right down to earth--and the light of his presence was no longer

there.

* * * * *

A hard frost was on the ground. The shops were shut, for it was Boxing

Day. Those who were not on enjoyment bent were snugly quartered by their

own fireside, with the firm conviction that nothing would tempt them

away. Some, however, had business to attend to in spite of its being a

holiday, and old Joshua was one of these. He was known as "old" Joshua

because his hair had turned prematurely white--as white as the rime

which had gathered on his shabby hat as he hurried along the murky,

dimly lighted street which led to the great theatre. The wind that

entered so unceremoniously through his thin coat was biting cold--the

violin he carried was more carefully muffled up than he.

"One, two, three," he counted, as a neighbouring clock began chiming;

"four, five, six!"

He quickened his pace. He had to be in his place in the orchestra in

extra good time, as it was the first night of the new pantomime. And

before that, he had some one coming to meet him at the back entrance.

"I shall be there all in good time," he muttered. "By Jupiter!" he

exclaimed, as he tripped and nearly fell over something that was lying

straight in his path. Only when he stooped down did he discover that on

the pavement lay a small child, all cold to the touch, with fair curls

dishevelled, and eyes wide open that seemed to see nothing.

Old Joshua's heart filled with pity and indignation. "What a shame," he

muttered, "to abandon such a treasure as this! And no one about who can

help me." He looked anxiously around--no one was in sight; so he

hurriedly went in search of a policeman. When he had succeeded in

finding one, and the two reached the spot together, a crowd had

collected and was gazing wonderingly at the tiny, prostrate form.

"Stand back there!" commanded the man of law.

The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Old Joshua felt the cold no more--he

was in a nervous heat at the delay; nevertheless, he waited till a cab

was hailed. Then the policeman tenderly lifted the helpless little

creature into it, and the driver wrapped his rug around it. "To the

'orspital!" directed the policeman, stepping inside, and the vehicle was

driven smartly away. The crowd dispersed, and with it old Joshua, as

quickly as he could hurry through the throng.

At the stage door he found his little Stella awaiting him with sparkling

eyes, in anticipation of her annual treat.

"Daddy, you're late," she said, holding up a finger in mock gravity;

then she clapped her hands with delight at his arrival.

Old Joshua would not distress her with the cause of his delay, so he

only stooped and kissed her. "Give me your hand, old lady," he said,

"and come along quickly. Through this door--that's right. Up you go.

Don't step on my poor toes or push against me when we turn the corner

more than you can help, or old Daddy Joshua and his fiddle might be a

little out of tune!" And, laughing as they went, they climbed right up

to the top back row of the vast empty theatre. There a smiling

attendant welcomed her as quite an old little friend, and when he had

seen his daughter raised up on a seat by means of a big hassock, old

Joshua, with a nod of thanks, hastened below to join his comrades of the

orchestra, and help create the squeaky din which they called "tuning

up."

At last the lights were turned up. An eager troop of pleasure-seekers

tumbled into the gallery in a rush, and while Stella was looking around

her every available seat was quickly occupied. The other parts of the

house were filling rapidly in more dignified style, and soon every place

was tenanted in honour of the great Christmas pantomime. The large

orchestra struck up, and when the overture was over the gorgeously

painted curtain slowly rose.

Stella, perched up aloft, forgot where she was, and everything else in

the world went straight out of her head as she gazed with rapture at the

lovely scene that was peopled with fairies, and goblins, and wonderful

beings, disporting themselves in a land that was all glitter and gold.

And so the hours flew by, in a wonder of loveliness, fairy story, and

fun.

"'Ave a bit o' orange, dearie?" asked the stout woman who was sitting

next to her. But Stella was too engrossed to think about oranges or

neighbours, nor even did she feel the light nudge that followed. The

woman merely turned to her husband, smiled, and held her peace; while

Stella threw back her head and shook with laughter, as the Clown tickled

Pantaloon with a poker that looked extremely red hot. She wasn't a bit

tired, and was quite surprised to hear "God Save the King," and to find

the whole beautiful show was already over, like a dream. It had seemed

to her as though it must go on for ever.

Flushed and excited, and a good deal jostled by the moving crowd, she

made her way to the staircase in order to meet the motherly attendant on

the next landing, who had promised to take her to her father at the

stage door. Stella was walking down carefully step by step, when two

young men came roughly tearing past her. A sudden push threw her off her

balance. She knew she screamed because she heard it. Then she knew and

heard nothing more.

* * * * *

Great fun was going forward in the biggest ward in the Children's

Hospital. Father Christmas had suddenly appeared amidst much cheering

and clapping of hands. Not only were the little inmates, the nurses, and

young doctors beaming with smiles, but Father Christmas himself felt the

glow of jollity as he busily handed the toys he carried to his two

attendant clowns. These nimble, funny fellows ran from him to the cots,

backwards and forwards, giving such beautiful toys, and saying such

funny things as they gave them, that every child was soon laughing and

happy, even those with a bandaged head or limb, or a pain inside or

outside; and the unwonted excitement brought a flush to their pale

cheeks and brightness to their eyes.

But none of the jollification was seen by the new little inmate of the

cot that was in the far corner. A tiny blind boy lay there, with pretty,

fair curls, and large dark eyes that he turned pathetically around. He

had not spoken at all. Earlier in the evening he had shivered much, and

groaned. Now he lay peacefully smiling, for his small hands held a

musical-box that Father Christmas himself had placed there, and set

working, and the tinkle-tinkle of a pretty tune seemed to please and

soothe him.

When the Christmas visitors had gone away, and the dolls had been hushed

to sleep by their new mothers, and the woolly animals lay hugged tightly

in the arms of drowsy owners, a little girl in a swoon from an accident

was carried into the ward. The sprained ankle had been dressed; quietly

and quickly she was put to bed, and consciousness soon returned.

"Where am I?" said Stella, staring about her.

"You fell down, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn, "and we are taking care of

you until you are fetched home. You'll soon be all right again. Does

your ankle hurt much? Don't move it."

"It feels funny," replied Stella, "but doesn't hurt now it is

still--thank you very much," she added, staring about her in amazement

at the strange faces, the holly in the strange surroundings, at the

nurses in their pretty costumes with their white caps and aprons, and at

the sleeping children clutching their toys. In the cot next to hers,

however, the little fair-haired boy looked awake. His eyes in their

aimless wandering were now fixed on the high window through which the

stars were twinkling at him, and the Evening Star looked fixedly down

upon him. His hands lay listlessly on the polished wooden box. The music

had changed, and in his ear it sang of "Angels ever bright and fair."

Stella, who was watching him with so much interest, asked who he was.

"He is a little foundling," said Nurse Evelyn. "He was abandoned in the

cold streets."

Stella turned her head on the pillow towards him again, and asked

timidly--

"Are you better?"

"Talk to him to-morrow, dear," advised Nurse Evelyn.

As she gazed at him Stella thought she had never seen so beautiful a

child. She stretched out her arm and took his tiny palm in hers; then he

turned his face towards her and smiled, contentedly and trustingly

leaving his hand in hers. And thus with love and pity in her heart she

fell fast asleep.

And in the night she saw a wonderful thing--a moonbeam that seemed to

come down into the room--the small hand in hers unloosed itself, and the

boy arose looking gloriously beautiful; his eyes were shining, and he

could see the bright light, and he began climbing up the beam, so easily

that it looked like gliding, so happily now that he could see his way

and whither it was leading him.

The next morning Stella's first thought was of the lovely vision, and of

her little companion. She turned over and looked with surprise. The cot

in the corner was empty--so very empty, and tidy with its smoothed fresh

sheets.

"Oh, where's he gone?" she exclaimed.

Nurse hurried to her side. "Who, dear?"

"There--from the empty cot."

The Nurse looked sweet and grave. "He has gone where he came from,

dear."

"And where did he come from?" asked Stella, with a curious sense of

loneliness.

"Where all children come from."

Of course, Stella knew that all children are Heaven-born, and come from

the stars. Why, her own name meant a star. And, of course, she also knew

that every one who was good some day went back again to Heaven.

"Oh," she cried, in a hushed voice, "has he gone back there?"

"Yes, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn gently. "Now, don't think of him any

more. Here's a pretty book with pictures."

But Stella did think of him, a great deal more. The little golden-haired

boy occupied her thoughts more than any one ever knew. And that night,

and many other nights, when she looked upwards at the vast sky, so

mysterious and serene with its millions of stars, she would wonder and

ponder. And there was always one particular little star that she loved

best, and when she looked upon it a sweetness would steal into her

heart, and she would think of the gentle boy with the angel face, who

had gone back to Heaven--for she felt quite sure that he was there

amongst them, and that he could see her, and that, perhaps, he loved

her.

And all to herself she called him Little Starry--and she remembered him

always.

CEDRIC'S UNACCOUNTABLE ADVENTURE

PART I

Cedric was flying his kite in a flowery meadow close to his home in

Cornwall. It was a favourite spot of his, for he was a boy who loved

beautiful scenery, and from there he could get a glimpse of Land's End,

with its great rocks around which the waves frothed and gambolled,

broke, and gurgled away.

The day was grey and windy, just the sort of day for flying a kite. This

kite was of the old-fashioned sort, with a tail of his own making, and

as it soared away higher and higher, with the tail wriggling its great

length like a happy eel on a holiday, his heart was full of pride and

content.

He kept on unwinding and unwinding the large ball of string until he

began to wonder if his kite would still be in view by the time he had

unwound it all. The wind was increasing in strength, when, to his

astonishment, and apparently for no reason at all, the pull on his arm

suddenly relaxed, and the kite all at once dropped quickly to earth,

tail first. Cedric darted forward to where it lay, some distance ahead.

When he reached it, he flung himself alongside to examine it carefully.

He could find no rent, no damage; nothing was wrong. There was nothing,

apparently, to account for such peculiar behaviour in his hitherto

well-conducted kite.

As he passed his hand over it where it lay, he felt underneath it,

entangled in the tail, something hard. He could see it glistening

through. He quickly drew it forth, and found in his hand--a golden key.

"Halloa! what's this?" exclaimed Cedric, as he knelt down and turned his

discovery over and over. "A yellow key. However did it get there?" was

his next thought. He continued to ask himself the riddle, but finding no

answer he gave it up, and carefully examined the key. There was no mark

on it--it wouldn't even whistle when he tried it. "Some one must have

lost it, I suppose," he went on, and concluded: "Well, it's no use to

me!" and he threw it away. Seating himself on the grass, he soon became

absorbed in getting his kite all trim again, and had temporarily secured

the string to a bush, when his attention was attracted by the key, which

lay and glistened as if it knew it was glistening.

Cedric didn't care to trouble with it, but instinctively he picked it

up, and said--

"I wonder where this key belongs to?"

At that moment his view of the Land's End became slowly obscured by a

huge iron door, the lock of which was outlined with gold. He tried the

key he held. _It fitted!_ A turn, the heavy door was unlocked, and he

put the key in his pocket. He turned the handle, pushed the door open

just enough to squeeze through, and it swung to behind him.

* * * * *