The question was opportune, for it gave Mrs. Carraway a chance to laugh outright with some other ostensible object than her husband.  She availed herself of the chance, threw her head back, and shook convulsively.

“She sent her a ball of shaving-paper,” Mrs. Carraway said.

A faint smile flitted over Carraway’s face.  “Well, it might have been worse,” he said.  “She can use it for curling-paper.”  He paused a moment.  Then he said:  “I want to say to you, my dear, that—­ah—­I want Christmas celebrated this year after my plan of selection.  Instead of squandering our hard-earned dollars on things no sensible person wants and none can use, we will consider, first of all, practical utility.”

“Very well,” sighed Mrs. Carraway.  “I quite agree as far as you and I are concerned—­but how about the children?  I don’t think Tommie would feel very happy to wake up on Christmas morning and find a pair of suspenders and a new suit of clothes under the tree.  He needs both, but he wants tin soldiers.  And as for Mollie, she expects a doll.”

“Well, I don’t wish to be hard on the children,” said Mr. Carraway, “but now is the time to begin training them.  There may be a temporary disappointment, but in the end they will be happier for it.  Of course I don’t say to give them necessities of life for Christmas, but in selecting what we do give them, get something useful.  Dolls and tin soldiers and toy balloons are well enough in their way, but they are absolutely useless.  Therefore, I say, don’t give them such things.  Surely Mollie would be pleased to receive a nice little fur tippet or a muff, and I’ll get Tommie a handsome snow-shovel, that he can use when he cleans off the paths.  He won’t mind; it will be a gift worth having, and by degrees he’ll come to see that the plan of utility is a good one.”

Mrs. Carraway discreetly held her tongue, although she was far from approving Carraway’s course in so far as it affected the children.  She tacitly agreed to the proposition, but there was the light of an idea in her eye.

The days intervening before Christmas passed rapidly away, and Christmas eve finally came.  Tommie and Mollie were bubbling over with suppressed excitement, and frequently went off into spasms of giggles.  There was something very funny in the wind evidently.  After dinner the small family repaired to the library, where the children were in the habit of distributing their gifts for their parents on the night before Christmas.  Mrs. Carraway was beaming, and so was Mr. Carraway.  The children had been informed of what they were to expect, and after an hour or two of regret, they had put their little heads together, giggled a half-dozen times, and accepted the situation.

“Your mother has presented me with a ton of coal, children,” said Carraway, smiling happily.  “Now you may think that a funny sort of gift—­”

“Yeth, papa,” said Mollie.

“Awful funny,” said Tommie, wiggling with glee.