MRS. DRYDEN was cross!

She would have been at a loss to specify what especial grounds she had for the discontent that possessed her on this particular night. If interrogated, she would probably have returned an evasive reply to the effect that it was none of the questioner’s business how she felt or looked, so long as she did not obtrude her unhappiness upon other people. Everybody had his and her own troubles with which others had no right to intermeddle. She was responsible to no one for her behavior; nobody should hinder her from being low-spirited, if she pleased to be so. She was out of humor with the whole world, herself included. The children were troublesome; the servants heedless; her husband indifferent to her grievances—and it was Christmas eve.

“Really,” she said, peevishly, at tea-time, “one would suppose that Christmas came but once in a century, instead of once a year! Everybody is as crazy to-night as if there were never to be another 25th of December.”

“By the way,” said her husband, looking up from his paper, “I suppose you have baked some mince-pies and fried some dough-nuts—haven’t you?”

“I have mince-pies and turkey for to-morrow!” was the curt reply. “I knew you would not be satisfied unless you had as good a dinner as your neighbors. But as for dough-nuts—they are oily, rank, indigestible abominations, fit only for an ostrich’s stomach, and one doesn’t get the smell of the hot fat out of the house in two weeks after they have been cooked. I never mean to make another while I live.”

Two pairs of sorrowful eyes stole a glance of mutual pity at one another, when this announcement was made; two pairs of cherry lips took a piteous curl, for a second; two curly heads bent lower over the plates set before their owners.

Not that there was any dearth of sweet things in the Dryden larder, or that Ally and Nettie, the proprietors of the eyes, lips, and heads aforesaid, were gormandizers. But this matter of frying doughnuts was great fun to them, as it is to most other small people who have ever been permitted to stand by and see the rings, leaves, birds, circles, triangles, and the endless variety of nondescript figures leave the kneading-board pale, flat surfaces of soft dough, and, upon being thrown into the bubbling fat, sinking, like leaden shapes, with a tremendous splutter and “fizz,” arise slowly and majestically to the top of the caldron, as Mr. Weller has it, “swelling wisibly” before the enraptured eye into puffy, crisp, toothsome morsels, fit, in the estimation of the juvenile partakers thereof, for a queen’s luncheon. Last year, the brother and sister had spent Christmas week with an aunt in another town. This lady being the indulgent mamma of half a dozen boys and girls, enjoyed nothing so much as making them merry and happy. The six days passed in her abode lived in the memory of nephew and niece as a dream of Paradisaical delight. But, this season, the holidays were to be kept at home, and the prospect was, to say the least, not eminently flattering.

Mr. and Mrs. Dryden were estimable people in their way, but they had studied to render themselves intensely and purely matter-of-fact. They prided themselves secretly upon growing wiser and more practical—less poetical—each revolving cycle. Each year, life assumed a more positive and less romantic aspect; their own duties seemed more momentous and imperative; the things which others call recreation and innocent amusements were puerile and unworthy. Mr. Dryden was making money; Mrs. Dryden was a notable housekeeper, and, so far as the physical needs of the children were concerned, a careful mother. Four little ones, three boys and a girl, claimed her love and maternal offices. Allison, the eldest, was eight years old; Nettie, six; and a pair of twin babies were in their third winter. The mother’s hands were certainly full, however admirable might be her faculty of accomplishing with speed the work set for her to do. It was not surprising that she should sometimes wear a haggard, anxious look, or that, now and then, she should be, as she now expressed it, “worried out of her senses.”

“I don’t see, for my part,” she broke forth, impatiently, presently, “how people find time or have the heart to frolic and observe holidays and the like frivolous carryings-on! With me, it is work, work, work! from morning until night, and from one year’s end to another. It frets me to see grown-up men and women, who ought to know something about the cares and solemn responsibilities of life, acting like silly children. What is Christmas more than any other time—when one takes a sober, common-sense view of the matter?”

“That is what nobody does in this age of nonsense and dissipation,” returned her husband. “I don’t know what the world is coming to!”

“Wasn’t our Saviour born on Christmas-day, Mamma?” asked Nettie’s timid voice.

“That is not certain, by any means, child. And if it were true, there is all the more scandal in making a frolic of it. If there were to be prayer-meetings held all over the world to celebrate the event, it would be far more appropriate.”

The polysyllable staggered Nettie a little, but she retained sufficient courage to reply: “Our teacher told us, last Sabbath, that everybody ought to be very happy upon the Saviour’s birthday.”

Before Mrs. Dryden could answer, Ally put in his oar.

“Mamma! why doesn’t Santa Claus ever come down our chimney?”

“There is no such creature, Allison! You are too old to believe in that ridiculous fable.”

“But, Mamma, he came to Aunt Mary’s last year!” cried both children, in a breath.

“And we all hung up our stockings in the parlor!” added Nettie.

“And Aunt Mary let the fire go down on purpose, so that the old chap might not be scorched!” shouted Ally, excitedly. “We wanted her to have the chimney swept, but she said he wouldn’t mind a little dirt.”

“For you know—

quoted Nettie, “and yet he was in a good humor

chanted Ally. “Oh! what times we had repeating that, after we went to bed that night.

“You children will be the death of me!” cried Mrs. Dryden, distractedly, putting her hands to her ears. “I shall certainly never let you spend another Christmas at your Aunt Mary’s! Your heads were so crammed with nonsense last year, that I am afraid you will never get rid of it. Finish your suppers and be off to bed! You are as Christmas-mad as if you had never been trained to more sensible things!”

“I can not imagine,” said Mr. Dryden, severely, “how they have contrived to remember the senseless doggerel your sister was so injudicious as to teach them.”

“That is the depravity of human nature!” sighed the wife.

Very sober little faces were uplifted to father and mother for a “good-night” kiss, and very slow footsteps went up the stairs to the chamber which the brother and sister shared in common. There was a pathos in the sound, so unlike was it to the brisk patter of other small feet upon other floors and staircases on that jubilee eve.

The father, albeit he was not an imaginative man, noticed this, and went off to the parlor with a pained and yearning heart—saddened, he knew not by what—longing for something he could not name. The children had interrupted his evening reading, at supper, by their chatter, and he bestowed himself in his armchair by the centre-table, to finish the perusal of his newspaper. His seat was comfortable; the light clear and soft; the evening news interesting; the room still; yet he could not fix his mind upon his occupation. Through the quiet apartment came and went the echoes of the four little feet, in slow dejection, going on up to the repose that was to be visited by no happy dreams of the glories of Christmas morning. He saw, between him and the printed column, the sadly-serious countenances, that were, by this time, laid upon their pillows. He wondered if the pair would cry themselves to sleep. He purposely waxed angry with his sister-in-law for putting these silly notions into the children’s heads. They were contented enough until that unfortunate visit. Now, there was no telling where this mischief would stop. It was too provoking to have two such fine natures soured by repinings and foolish longings; two minds so intelligent filled with superstitious fancies. Yes! they were fine children! if he did say it—and dutiful as handsome and intelligent. His wife had an excellent method of discipline, and deserved much credit for her success in training her offspring. She was a good woman—industrious and conscientious—but he could have wished that her spirits were more equable. He did not relish the idea that his blooming Nettie might, one day, become a toil-worn, pains-taking wife and mother; her smooth forehead be ploughed in two deep furrows, like those that crossed her mother’s, from temple to temple; her pouting lips grow colorless and drawn down at the corners; her bird-like voice sharpen into the shrill peevishness of the tones that had ordered the bairns off to bed. He would like to keep life fresh and bright for his darling so long as he could. She would find out, soon enough, what a dry, dusty, detestable cheat the world was. If he might have his wish, she should be a child always; a merry, laughing, singing fairy, to gladden his old age; a simple-hearted, trusting child, in whose love and purity he could find refreshment, when disheartened by the faithlessness of his fellow-men. She was very fond of him—grave and undemonstrative as he was. With the unerring perception of childhood, she had discovered that she was his favorite, and repaid his partiality in the coin he liked best. The sound of his latch-key in the door was the signal, noon and night, for her to bound down stairs to meet him; to kiss him, and offer, in her pretty, womanly way, to relieve him of his overcoat; to hang up his hat and bring him his slippers. Such nimble feet as hers were! Blithe, willing little feet, how they twinkled to and fro, to perform whatever errands he would suffer her to undertake for his comfort! Merry, dancing little feet!

But the echoes persisted in contradicting his recollection of their lively music. Up and down—sad and slow—they wandered; never drowned for a moment, while their monotonous beat was rendered more mournful by the hurried, ceaseless tramp of pleasure-seekers upon the pavement without. He wished that he had spoken a kindly word to the downcast innocents, instead of the silent salute he had vouchsafed to their mutely-offered lips. Perhaps they were not asleep yet! His wife was still with the twins, in the bedroom overhead, for he heard her walking about the floor, preparing, as he knew, to leave them for the night. He could slip up noiselessly to the small chamber adjoining, and solace his uneasy spirit by a loving “good-night,” that should dry Nettie’s eyes, if they were wet, and comfort Ally’s disappointed soul, while the partner of his bosom would be none the wiser for it.

Mrs. Dryden did not allow the attendance of a nursery-maid to her elder children in the evening. For more than a year they had undressed themselves and retired to their respective cots, without noise or complaint, leaving nothing for mother or servant to do, but to look in, a few minutes later, and extinguish the gas. This had been done by Ellen, the chamber-maid, before she went down to her own tea; but the moonlight, streaming through the window-curtain, showed to the father, as he stood without the partly-open door, the two white beds in opposite corners of the room, and the forms that ought to have been snugly laid under the blankets. Instead of this, they were raised upon their elbows to a half-sitting posture, and the low hum of their earnest voices arrested the spectator upon the threshold.

“I wonder if Papa and Mamma ever were a little boy and girl!” said Master Ally, in a doleful key. “If they were, I guess they have forgotten how they used to feel. I could have cried right out, to-day, at school, when the boys were all talking about Christmas gifts and what they expected to get. You ought to have seen them stare at me when they asked me what I thought I should have, and I said that we didn’t keep Christmas at our house, and that I had never hung up my stockings but once, and that was when I was at my aunt’s! And one boy asked me if my father and mother were dead. And when I said ‘No,’ another fellow called out, as rude as could be—‘I guess they don’t care much about you!’ I tell you, Nettie, it makes a fellow feel real bad!”

“I know it!” said the miniature woman, tenderly. “But, Ally, dear, Papa and Mamma do love us! Only they don’t know how much we think of Christmas, and how children love to hang up their stockings, and all that. But that was a very naughty boy that told you they didn’t care for you. Papa works ever so hard to get clothes and food for us, so Mamma says; and Mamma sews for us, and takes care of us when we are sick, and—and—a great many other kind things.”

“Maybe so; but she was awful cross to-night, and scolded like every thing, just for nothing at all, and I am very miserable! Just hear the boys shouting out-doors, and the people laughing and talking, as they go along! It’s downright mean in them, when they might know that there isn’t to be any Christmas in our house. I wish they would be still! I wish I was dead!”

“Ally, Ally, that is wicked!” expostulated the gentle tones of the sister.

“I don’t care! where is the sense of living, if a fellow is never to have any fun? Where is the use of being good? If I was the wickedest boy in town, I could not be treated worse than I am now. How I hate this stupid old house! When I am a man, and have boys and girls of my own, I mean that Santa Claus shall come every week and bring them—oh, such lots of nice things! and you shall live with me, Nettie, and we will fry doughnuts and have New Year’s cake every day!”

“Ally!” said Nettie, thoughtfully, “do you suppose there is such a man as Santa Claus? Mamma says there isn’t!”

“I know there is!” returned the boy, confidently. “But he doesn’t come to a house unless the father and mother of the children that live there send him an invitation. One of the big boys told me so, to-day. And good fathers and mothers always tell him what to bring.”

“I was just thinking,” resumed Nettie’s liquid treble, “if Our Heavenly Father knew how very badly we wanted to have a Christmas, whether He wouldn’t send him to us. Suppose I pray to Him and tell Him all about it!”

“You may try it!” was the conclusion of the embryo skeptic. “But I don’t believe it will do any good.”

In a trice, Nettie had slipped to the floor, and was fumbling among a heap of clothes laid upon a chair. Mr. Dryden watched her curiously.

“Now, Ally!” he heard her say, presently, “Here are the clean stockings that Ellen got out for us to put on to-morrow. Mamma wouldn’t like it if we hung them up ourselves, so I will just lay them on the foot of the bed. If Santa Claus should come, maybe he can pin them up for us.”

Then, sinking to her knees, she put her hands together and raised her pure face—angelic in the father’s sight—as the moonbeams revealed its expression of meek devotion.

“Our Father who art in Heaven! please make us good and happy, and let us have a merry Christmas. If there is any Santa Claus, please let him come to our house to-night, for he has never been here in all our lives, and this makes us very sorry. Bless dear Papa and Mamma, and don’t let us think hard of them, or say naughty things about them, only because they don’t know how little children feel. Amen!”

Ally gave a grunt that might mean acquiescence, or doubt, when his sister arose and leaned over to kiss him; but Mr. Dryden could play the eavesdropper no longer.

Feeling that he must inevitably discover himself if he remained another minute in his present position, he hurried down-stairs and into the parlor, where he behaved more like a crazy man than the sober, self-possessed head of a staid and decent household. Kicking off his slippers, he thrust his feet violently into

his boots, stamping, with unnecessary force, to get these fairly on; blew his nose repeatedly and loudly, afterwards passing his handkerchief over his eyes, as though the sudden catarrh from which he appeared to be suffering had affected them also. Going into the hall, he snatched his greatcoat from the rack and put it on—still in desperate haste, pulled his hat over his brows, and rushed into the street.

He found himself plunged directly into a rapid, buzzing crowd. Every step was quick and light; every face wore a smile, and the air was full of the pleasant confusion of happy voices. Bless the children! how they ran under his feet, and trod upon his toes, and kicked against his heels, and jostled him on the right and on the left! And not one of them was empty-handed. Parcels of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions, filled small fingers; were hugged by small arms; laid upon small shoulders and slung upon small backs. Brown paper bundles; bundles tied in frailer white paper, which, bursting, showed the wheel of a toy-wagon, or the head of a toy-horse, or the arm of a doll; funnel-shaped bundles, fresh from the hands of the confectioner; bundles, wrapped hastily in newspaper by an economical shopkeeper, or one whose stock of wrapping material had proved inadequate to the rush of custom; boxes, square, oblong, and many-sided; mimic guns and drums, with gayly-painted sides, upon whose heads the delighted owners could not refrain from beating stirring Christmas marches, as they carried them home; here and there a huge hobby-horse, with dilated eye and streaming mane, borne aloft by the stalwart porter of some toy warehouse; these were but a few features in the pageant that streamed past Mr. Dryden—a varied and joyous torrent of life. He caught the infection of this atmosphere of gladness before he had gone a dozen yards. He had come forth with the intention of purchasing something with which to make his children happy; to answer Nettie’s prayer so far as lay in his power. Awakened conscience and remorseful affection for those he felt he had wronged, had driven him on to the duty of making restitution. He soon began to understand that there might be enjoyment, active and new, in the task.

“How I wish I had brought them with me!” he said to himself, as he felt his features relax into a smile at sight of the general hilarity. “It was hard to send them to bed so early on Christmas eve. But, what would their mother have said if I had asked her permission to take them out after dark?”

He stayed his rapid progress, as another query presented itself. What would this very prudent and sedate help-meet say and think of another bold innovation upon established rules, to wit, this expedition and its probable results? How should he meet the stare of mingled astonishment and rebuke that would rest upon his freight of “useless” playthings, upon his return home? She disapproved of toys, except when great moderation was displayed in their bestowal. Nettie had but one doll in the world, and, careful as she was of this treasure, her loving arts could not conceal the ravages of time; said manikin having been Aunt Mary’s gift to her niece, upon her third birthday. Ally had never owned a hobby-horse. His mother had a dread of “rough plays.” Our hero was quite aware that on this occasion he was not inclined to moderation. He would cheerfully have bought the entire contents of any one of the illuminated windows whose splendors drew around them a swarm of admiring juveniles, as a hive of honey would tempt hungry bees. The difficulty was to know what would best please the unsuspecting twain at home.

“This sort of thing is not in my line!” he soliloquized. “I suppose there is a difference between girls’ and boys’ playthings. I have it! These people ought to know their business! I will state my dilemma, and take whatever they advise.”

Thus resolving, he entered the largest and most brilliant toy emporium he had yet seen, and making his way, with considerable labor, through the throng of eager buyers, presented himself at the counter. Luckily, the saleswoman nearest him had just dismissed a customer, and turned to him with an engaging smile. She looked tired—as well she might, poor thing! having been on her feet for twelve hours, and hard at work all the time—but it was not in a kind-hearted tradeswoman’s nature to be cross on Christmas eve.

“What can I show you, sir?” she asked, politely.

“That is what you must tell me, madam! I want some toys for my little girl, aged six, and my boy, who is two years older. If you can inform me what will suit them, you will oblige me, and please them.”

His fluent, pleasant speech amazed himself. Certainly, the witchery of the festal eve was working upon him fast.

“Has your daughter a tea or dinner set?” inquired the shop-woman, taking down two wooden boxes; pulling back the sliding tops, and rummaging among the shred paper used for packing the fragile contents. “Here is something very handsome.”

“Just the thing!” ejaculated the father, upon beholding the wee tureen; covered and shallow dishes, gravy-boat, saltcellars, casters, and a dozen plates, white, with a rim of gold; all so graceful in design, so dainty in material, as to elicit his unqualified admiration. Already he saw, in imagination, Nettie’s eyes glisten at sight of them; her deft fingers arranging them—cunning little housewife that she was.

“Then you don’t care for the tea-set?” making a movement to close the box.

“I—don’t—know!” hesitatingly. “I suppose she will want to spread a supper and breakfast table, as well as play dinner, won’t she?”

“If she has not cups and saucers already, I would certainly recommend you to take these,” and the artful tempter made a tea-tray of the lid of the case, setting out the service so attractively, that her inexperienced customer speedily regarded the second array of china as a “must have.”

“Now, perhaps, you will look at a table!” pursued the woman, leading the way to the back of the store. “We have a novelty in that line—an extension-table.”

“Of course! how stupid in me not to remember that the china would be useless unless she had something upon which to arrange it!”

Mr. Dryden had entered thoroughly into the spirit of the enterprise, and was highly diverted at his oversight; very grateful to her who had corrected his blunder. The table was a neat affair, with turned legs and polished top, and constructed, as had been said, upon the extension principle. Mr. Dryden took it on the spot.

“Chairs?” he said, interrogatively.

It was now the lady’s turn to be ashamed of her forgetfulness. Half a dozen cane-seat chairs were added to the pile, which betokened Mr. Dryden to be a valuable customer. Then followed a case of knives, a knife-box, and an assortment of silver (?) ware, and both parties came to a momentary halt. The gentleman recovered himself first.

“Now, a doll—for which she can keep house!”

“Wax finish, porcelain, biscuit, or rubber?” said the other, glibly. “Dressed, or undressed?”

“Dressed—I suppose, since to-morrow is so near. As to the rest, I am no judge. But I want the prettiest doll in the establishment.”

His experience in this species of merchandise was so limited that he might well be excused for starting at the wonderfully life-like lady paraded for his inspection. Her hair waved in natural ringlets; she rolled her eyes, as the shopwoman moved her to and fro. She was dressed in the height of the mode—neither gloves, nor hat, nor parasol being wanting to complete her toilet; and when, in obedience to a dexterous pull of a wire upon her left side, she squeaked “Mamma!” and, responding to a similar twitch of the corresponding muscle under the right arm, she cried “Papa!” Mr. Dryden was overwhelmed.

“What will toy makers do next?” he articulated.

“The art of manufacturing dolls is carried to great perfection,” quietly replied the woman. “Did you say that you would take this, sir?”

Take it! what could have bribed him to forego the treat of witnessing Nettie’s rapture in the survey of this resplendent and accomplished demoiselle?

“We have some very pretty doll-carriages, in which the lady can take the air,” was the next attack, and Mr. Dryden fell a willing sacrifice to this new snare.

In very compassion for her victim, the woman directed his thoughts to the boy’s gifts. A velocipede; a wheelbarrow, with spade, rake, and hoe; a set of jackstraws, for winter evenings; a football and a sled made up the complement that was to transport the semi-infidel to the seventh heaven of ecstacy.

Truth obliges me to mention that the lavish parent sustained a slight shock when the obliging saleswoman figured up and presented the amount of his indebtedness; but he rallied bravely.

“Christmas comes but once a year!” he said, manfully, and paid his bill with a good grace.

“You could not purchase the same quantity of happiness so cheaply in any other manner,” remarked the bland merchant, oracularly.

The tit-bit of wisdom was assuredly not original with her, but it impressed the hearer as a profound and truthful observation—one well worth remembering. He was getting on very swiftly, indeed, in the acquisition of Christmas lore.

“You have but two children, then, sir?” remarked the lady, casually, in handing him his change.

“Bless my life! I forgot the twins!” exclaimed the father, aghast. “But I suppose they are too young to appreciate Christmas presents.”

“What age?” queried the other, sweetly.

“Two and a half.”

“My dear sir! they would be disconsolate if they were overlooked! Children understand these matters astonishingly soon.”

And having ascertained the sex of the twins, she selected two rubber balls, and two sets of building blocks for their delectation.

“Our porter will take them for you,” she said, amused at Mr. Dryden’s amazed contemplation of the dimensions of the pyramid she constructed of his purchases. “Please favor us with your address!”

“Really, a little more practice will render me an adept in toy shopping!” thought Mr. Dryden, complacently, when he was beyond the enchanted ground, the seductions of which had lightened both heart and pocket. “It is not a disagreeable or difficult operation, after all.”

As he neared his own door on his return, his pockets crammed with conical packages of sugar-plums, nuts, and crystallized fruits, he overtook the porter with his barrow.

“Quietly, my man!” he said, inserting his latch-key in the lock with secret trepidation of spirit. “It would never do to awaken the children. Or to attract my wife’s attention,” he added, inly.

The porter’s load was transferred to the hall so silently that even Mrs. Dryden’s cat-like ears did not hear any bustle. Mr. Dryden sent the man off with a gratuity, and proceeded to dispose of the presents in the following style: the table bestraddled the right arm, and upon it were the boxes of crockery, surmounted by the chairs; the case of jackstraws and several other light articles. The velocipede was borne in like manner upon the left coat sleeve; then came the wheelbarrow; the boxes of building-blocks, the balls, and on the top, held firmly in its place by Mr. Dryden’s chin, was the doll, In the right hand he carried the sled; in the other Dolly’s carriage. This staid, prosaic pater-familias would have made no bad representation of the patron saint of the anniversary, the suggestion of whose existence he had scouted, a few hours previously, as he slowly ascended the stairs on tiptoe, his face radiant with arch delight, despite the cowardly fear tugging at his heart-strings, as to the reception in store for him at the hands of his better half. Treading yet more delicately, in passing his sleeping-room, wherein, he had no doubt, Mrs. Dryden was soundly reposing, it being ten o’clock, her invariable bedtime, he pushed open the door of the smaller chamber beyond, and entered. The gas was burning—not brightly—but it enabled him to see with terrible distinctness the figure that started up in the aisle between the beds and confronted him with an excited air. It was his wife!

Dropping the curtain upon a tableau which the reader can picture to himself better than I can describe, we will take a step or two backward in our story.

“And it’s sorry for the children I am, this blessed night!” said Ellen, to the cook, over their dish of tea. “Sorra a bit of a merry-making will they have to-morrow—and they such good, peaceful little things, too! I was asking Miss Nettie, just now, if I shouldn’t hang up her stockings, at a venture-like; ‘for,’ sez I, ‘there’s no knowing but the saint might pop down the chimney, unbeknownst to you, and ’twould be a pity not to be ready for him.’ For, you see, my heart was that tinder towards the lonesome craturs, that I thought I would step out myself, presently, and buy some candies and apples to put into their poor, empty, desolate little stockings. But, ‘No,’ says she, kinder pitiful, ‘I am afraid Mamma might not like it, Ellen. She doesn’t believe in keeping Christmas.’ And wid that she give a sigh, like a sorrowful woman, and Master Ally growled over something cross to himself.”

“It’s ra’al hard—that’s what it is!” responded Biddy. “They begged their Mamma, to-day, to let me fry some doughnuts—‘Just this once, Mamma,’ says they, ‘because to-morrow’s Christmas’—and she wouldn’t hear a word to it. Ah! no good ever came of ch’ating childer out of the fun the Lord meant they should have.”

“There’s the parlor bell!” said Ellen, jumping up. “What’s wanted now, I wonder?”

Her mistress stood upon the rug before the fire in the parlor, hat and cloak on.

“Ellen, if you have finished your supper, I want you to get your bonnet and shawl and go out with me. Take a basket along. I am going to buy some things for the children.”

Her voice shook in uttering these few sentences; and, although her face was averted, the girl was positive that she had been weeping. Brimful of curiosity and excitement, she dashed up-stairs for her wrappings, then down to the kitchen to ask Biddy to listen for sounds from the nursery while she was out.

“For we are going a-Christmassing—glory be to all the saints—St. Nicholas, in particular! for he must have put it into her head to remember the swate innocents.”

It is not our purpose to follow them in their tramp, as we have traced the course of the lady’s husband. Suffice it to say, that Ellen’s basket was heavily burdened when they re-entered the house, and her mistress bore sundry parcels in her hands, all of which were carefully deposited upon the carpet beside the cots of the calmly-sleeping children. Ellen was made happy, on her own account, by the present of a bank-bill for her private spending, and intrusted with another of the same value for Biddy; then excused from further service. If the maid had been mistaken in her surmise as to the tears she had seen in eyes which were generally dry and bright, there was no doubt as to the melting mood that overtook the mother when she removed the four stockings from the place where Nettie had laid them. She even pressed them to her lips before fastening the tops of each pair together with a stout pin, and hanging them over the footboards of the beds. To unpack the basket and undo papers, with as little rustling as was practicable, was her next act. She paused, when everything was uncovered, to survey her acquisitions. Her expenditures had been on a scale far less grand than her husband’s, but maternal tact had guided her in the selection of acceptable gifts. There were a cooking-stove, with its assortment of pans, griddles, and kettles; a work-box of satinwood, lined with red velvet, and well stocked; a cradle with a baby-doll asleep under the muslin curtain, for Nettie. For Ally, she had provided a bag of beautiful agate marbles; a fine humming-top; a paint-box, and a set—fourteen in number—of Abbott’s inimitable “Rollo” books for boys. She had not forgotten the twins, as was evidenced by a couple of whips; two picture-books, and two tin horses mounted upon wheels; one attached to an express wagon, the other to a baker’s cart. Nor had she disdained to call upon the confectioner. Her conical bundles contained “Christmas mixture;” plain sugar candy; peppermint lozenges and oranges; more wholesome, or, rather, less hurtful sweets than the richer and costly delicacies that had captivated her lord’s fancy. Altogether, the sight was a pleasant one, and a satisfactory, if one might judge by the gleam of comfort that overspread the tear-stained visage. She had just dropped a handful of the “mixture” into the foot of Ally’s sock, when a soft tap at the door startled her. It was Ellen, and she bore a plate, covered with a napkin, in her hand.

“If you plaze, mem—Biddy hopes you won’t be offended, mem—but the children were so disappointed to-day, mem; and when I told her you were going to give them a Christmas, she made so bold as to fry them a few doughnuts. She wouldn’t have taken the privilege, only, seeing Christmas comes but once a year, and it’s good children they are, mem!”

“They are, Ellen! Tell Biddy that I am much obliged to her. These are very nice, indeed!”

Yet she cried over them when the girl was gone. Her very servants pitied the cruelly-oppressed little ones!

“I have been a hard, unsympathizing mother!” she thought, sobbingly. “God forgive me this, my sin!” She wiped away the tears, and resumed her task. “William will think I have lost my senses!” she ruminated, cramming an orange into the leg of the tightly-stuffed sock. “But I can’t help it, if he does!”

And, as if invoked by her unspoken thought, her husband, accoutred as I have described, stood before her.

“William!”

“Emily!”

The two detected culprits stared at one another for an instant, in unuttered, because unutterable amazement; then, as the truth dawned upon their minds, they burst into a fit of laughter that threatened to awake the dreamers.

“Hush-sh-sh!” said Mrs. Dryden, wiping away the tears of mirth that now hung where bitterer drops had trickled awhile ago, and pointing to the beds, “Let me see what you have been doing?”

The prudent economist could not repress a single exclamation of gentle reproof, as she examined the store. “William Dryden! And in these hard times, my dear!”

“Christmas comes but once a year, wifie! and then I had to make up for lost time, you know. I’ll tell you how it happened, and then you won’t blame me. I felt badly after tea, and came up to say a kind word to them”—nodding towards the brother and sister—“before they went to sleep, and, that door being ajar, I heard them talking”—

“And listened, as I did at that one!” cried Mrs. Dryden, throwing her arms around his neck, and beginning to cry afresh. “O husband! I have been so miserable ever since! have felt so guilty! Only to think, that I was teaching my children to hate me and to hate their home—making their lives wretched!”

“Don’t think of it, dear! After this, there will be peace and good-will among us!” soothed the husband, his own eyes shining suspiciously. “If we have made a mistake, we are ready to correct it. Now, let us see what disposition can be made of this cargo of valuables. And I left a lot of gimcracks—sweet things, you know—down stairs.”

Christmas morning came, clear and brilliant, with frosty sunlight, and Mrs. Dryden, as was her custom, tapped at the children’s door, having beforehand stealthily unclosed it far enough to allow herself and her accomplice a view of the interior of the dormitory.

“Come, little birds, it is time you were out of your nests!”

The cheery, loving voice aroused the sleepers more thoroughly than sterner accents would have done. The mother was spared the pain of knowing that the novelty of the address made it so efficacious.

“Yes, Mamma!” answered Nettie, starting up in bed.

“All right!” responded Ally, and he turned over.

Thus it happened that the eyes of both rested simultaneously upon an object in the centre of the apartment, and a ringing cry of joy escaped them.

“Nettie, Santa Claus did come!”

“Ally, don’t you know what I prayed for?”

They were upon the floor before the words had left their lips. The next few minutes were passed in speechless admiration of the miraculous edifice that had arisen during their hours of unconsciousness. Mr. Dryden had made a second trip to the street, the night before, to buy a Christmas tree. A broad, flat box, covered with a white cloth, formed the base upon which this was set. The larger toys were placed around the trunk, and smaller ones hung among the gilt balls, flags, and flowers, that decked the boughs. Miss Dolly sat at the root upon one of her new chairs, her foot upon the rocker of the new cradle, and, perched up in the topmost branches, was Santa Claus—white beard, pipe, pack, and all—smiling broadly upon his enraptured devotees.

Nettie broke the spell of ecstatic silence. “Dear Mamma! Papa, darling!” she screamed. “Come and see! It is just like fairy-land!”

And flying to the door, her curls streaming back, and her face fairly luminous with delight, she ran directly into her parents’ arms.

“Christmas shall be an ‘institution’ in our family, hereafter!” said Mr. Dryden, that night, when the happy children had kissed them “good-night” over and over again. “I am a better man for last evening’s work and this day’s innocent frolic. I feel twenty years younger, and fifty degrees happier. It pays, my dear—it pays!”