“Well, Mamie,” said her mother, “I wouldn’t take any notice of Ned’s being cross about Christmas-time.  The Huntleys don’t keep Christmas.”

“Don’t keep Christmas!” exclaimed Mamie, astonished beyond measure.

Seeing that her mother was busy, she took her doll, Helena Margaret Constance Victorine, in her arms, and talked the matter over with her.

“What do you think, my dear,” said she, “they don’t keep Christmas at Ned Huntley’s house!  I don’t know just what mother means by not keeping it, for you know Santa Claus comes down the chimney, and so he can get in during the night and leave Christmas there.  Oh, yes, but they don’t keep it.  They turn it out, I suppose, just like mother told me they acted about the dear little baby Savior; they hadn’t any room for him, and I guess Mrs. Huntley hasn’t any room to keep Christmas in.  I wonder what she does with the Christmas things Santa Claus brings?  I wonder if she throws ’em away?  I mean to go and ask her;” and putting her child carefully in its cradle, Mamie started.

There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had told her little daughter; the Huntleys did not keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way.  They kept it in so far that on this very afternoon Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies, dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner.  Mr. Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a moment to say to his wife, “What have you settled on for Ned’s Christmas?”

“I’ve bought him a pair of arctics—­he needed ’em; and if you want to spend more than common, you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs.”

“Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps”—­the farmer tried to be particular about his words, for Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor—­“I was remembering how you used to enjoy giving the young ones candies and toys; so, perhaps—­”

“Now, Noah Huntley, I’m surprised at you!  Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy like Ned?  Why, you must be crazy, man!  The next thing will be that you’ll want a Christmas-tree yourself!”

“Well, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” thought the father.  “There’s my man, Fritz, he has been to the woods and cut a little tree for his children, and he seems to get a heap of pleasure out of it.  Ah! if only little Polly had lived!” Strangely enough, the wife was thinking the same thing, as she sliced and sifted and weighed.  “If little Polly had lived it would have been different, but we can’t throw away money on nonsense for Ned.”

A little red cloak flashed by the window, a little bright face, just about the age of “our little Polly’s,” peeped in at the door, and Mamie asked, “May I come in, Mrs. Huntley?”

“Certainly, child.  Here’s a fresh cookie.  I suppose you’re full of Christmas over at your house?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!  And I’m so sorry you don’t keep it.  What’s the reason?”