“Come bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing!”

Roger clapped his thin little hands with a cry of delight, for old Asher and the Doctor were bringing in the Yule-log to light it presently with the charred remains of the Christmas log of a year ago.  To-morrow another Yule-log would crackle and blaze and shower on the hearth, for the old Doctor molded a custom to suit his fancy.  And here was Annie splendidly aproned in white, following them in, and Aunt Ellen in a wonderful old brown-gold brocade disinterred for the doctor’s party from a lavender-sweet cedar chest in the garret.  And Sister Madge!—­Roger stared—­radiant in old-fashioned crimson satin and holly, colorful foils indeed for her night-black hair and eyes!  As for the doctor himself, Roger now began to realize that with his powdered wig, his satin breeches and gaily-flowered waistcoat—­to say nothing of silken hose and silver buckles—­he was by far the most gorgeous figure of them all!

“I,” said the doctor presently, striking the burning Yule-log until the golden sparks flew out, “I charge thee, log, to burn out old wrongs and heart-burnings!” and then, in accordance with a cherished custom of his father’s he followed the words with a wish for the good of his household.

“And I,” said old Asher as he struck the log, “I wish for the good of the horses and cows and all the other live things and,” with a terrific chuckle of mystery, “I wish for things aplenty this night.”

“And I,” said old Annie, with a terrible look at her imprudent spouse as she took the poker, “I wish for the harvest—­and wit for them that lack it!”

But Roger had the poker now, his black eyes starry.

“I—­I wish for more kind hearts like Aunt Ellen’s and the Doctor’s,” he burst forth with a strangled sob as the sparks showered gold, “for more—­more sisters like Sister Madge—­” his voice quivered and broke—­“and for—­for all boys who cannot walk and run—­” but Sister Madge’s arm was already around his shoulders and the old Doctor was patting his arm—­wherefore he smiled bravely up at them through glistening tears.

“Now, now, now, little lad!” reminded the Doctor, “it’s Christmas eve!” Whereupon he drew a chair to the fire and began a wonderful Christmas tale about St. Boniface and Thunder Oak and the first Christmas tree.  A wonderful old Doctor this—­reflected Roger wonderingly.  He knew so many different things—­how to scare away tears and all about mistletoe and Druids, and still another story about a fir tree which Roger opined respectfully was nothing like so good as Sister Madge’s story of the Cedar King who stood outside his window.

“Very likely not!” admitted the Doctor gravely.

“I’ve nothing like the respect for Mr. Hans Andersen myself that I have for Sister Madge.”

“I thought,” ventured Roger shyly, slipping his hand suddenly into the Doctor’s, “that Doctors only knew how to cure folks!”