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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

"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.

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.

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."

"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.

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