“Mr. Gates doesn’t know all the facts,” said the father.

“He can guess one or two of them,” said Mr. Gates, jingling his pocket.

“Fred is so quick,” said his admiring wife.

“Well, and what are the others?” the mother asked.  “There’s Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning.  Why shouldn’t Mr. Brown have the whisky one?  I’m sure he’d laugh.  But you couldn’t send Mrs. Venning the old maid.”

“We got this for Mr. Brown,” said the boy.  “The nurse bringing the father twins and calling them two ‘pink forms.’”

“That’s dashed good,” said Mr. Gates, “don’t you think?”

“Very smart,” said the father.  “That’s all right.  And what about Mrs. Venning?”

“Well,” said the girl, “we thought she’d like this one—­a man and a woman kissing in a tunnel, and he says the tunnel cost ten thousand pounds to make, and she says it’s worth it, every penny.”

“Very good,” said the father; “I like that.  Get me another of those and I’ll send it to a friend of mine in the City.  And I’ll go to the shop myself and help you to choose the local views for your Uncle and Aunt Tilly.  It’s a case where care is necessary.”

* * * * *

THREE DAUGHTERS OF FRANCE.

Chateau ——­, France.

To M. PUNCH.

CHER MONSIEUR,—­Shall I write to you of the toil, the fatigues which my sisters and I must endure at the hands of our country’s Allies, without kindling in your breast that flame of chivalry which is the common glory of our two races? C’est incroyable.

Let us then to my complaint.

We lived for many years, my two sisters and I, in the service of our dear master, who owned a beautiful chateau in the North of France.

Our duties were simple—­to entertain the guests of M. le Vicomte after dinner on those evenings upon which he gathered his friends around him.

For the rest we lived in the ease which his kind generosity knew how to provide.  We loved our own particular boudoir, with its books, its pictures, its comfortable fauteuils and its soft green cushions.

Oh, Monsieur, it makes me to weep when I think of my beautiful sisters—­the one with her laughing rosy cheeks, the other pale as ivory, save for one little black spot, which no man surely could call a blemish.

Those were happy days.  Often we kissed, my sisters and I, for very joy.

Then it came—­this terrible War.  M. le Vicomte was called away in the cause of la belle France; but we would not desert our home.  One day, we said, it shall be as of old.

And as the months went by it was whispered that the English would make of our chateau a house of rest for their officers who were recovering themselves of their wounds.  And we were glad, for we promised ourselves to entertain our brave Allies.  Thus might we too serve la patrie.

They came. Mon Dieu! Is it now a hundred years that we hurry to and fro in their service?  A House of Rest! Ma foi! Morning, noon and night they come, these countrymen of yours.  Never can we rest.  Hither and thither do they drive us.  No longer are our cushions soft and caressing; the cloth upon our table is stained, and see—­here is a hole.