room, I was aware that my store was exhausted, and as yet two-thirds of the children had received no gift.  I turned—­all in a cold shiver—­to retrace my steps and pick up the toys at the blind children’s feet, and as I did so, felt myself a bungler past pardon.  But in the act of turning, I cast a look back at the stage:  and there stood Mr Felix, nodding approval and beckoning.  So, as in a dream, I went back, ‘Capital!’ was his only comment.  Taking my bag, he passed his cloak over it again, and again handed it to me, stuffed to the brim.

Thrice I returned to him; but the third refill was a scanty one, since by this time there lacked but half a score of the taller children to be satisfied.  To these, too, I distributed their gifts, and when every eager pair of hands had been laden, I wheeled about for the next word of command.

But Mr Felix had skipped down from the stage, letting the curtain fall behind him.  He stood with his back to me, waving both arms to the orchestra; and as the musicians plunged at the opening bars of the Toy Symphony, the curtain rose, almost as soon as it had dropped; and rose upon a scene representing a street with shops decked for Christmas, and snow upon their eaves and window ledges.

Then, still to the strains of the Toy Symphony, a Harlequin ran in, with a Columbine, whom he twisted upon his bent knee, and tossed lightly through the upper window of a baker’s shop, himself diving a moment later, with a slap of his wand, through the flap of the fishmonger’s door, hard by.  Next, as on a frozen slide, came the Clown, with red-hot poker, the Pantaloon tripping over his stick, and two Constables wreathed in strings of sausages.  The Clown boxed the Pantaloon’s ears; the Pantaloon passed on the buffet to the Constables, and all plunged together into the fishmonger’s.  The Clown emerged running with a stolen plaice, passed it into the hands of the Pantaloon, who followed, and was in turn pursued off the scene by the Constables:  but the fishmonger, issuing last in chase, ran into the Clown, who caught up a barrel of red herrings and bonneted him.  The fishmonger extricated himself, and the two began to pelt each other with herrings, while the children screamed with laughter. . . .

It was a famous harlequinade; and, as usual, it concluded the entertainment.  For after a harlequinade, what can stand between a child and happy dreams?—­especially if he go to them with his arms full of Christmas presents.  Five minutes after the curtain had fallen I found myself standing beside Mr Felix in the hall, while he bade good-night to his guests.  Carriages of his hiring had arrived for them, and the coachmen apparently had received their orders.  A dozen well-trained nurses moved about the hall, and, having dressed the little ones—­who by this time were almost too drowsy with pleasure to thank their entertainer—­carried them out into the portico, where the liveried footmen stood by the carriage doors.  Slam! went the doors, and one after another—­with scarcely a word of command-the carriages bowled off over the thick snow.