The fine speech that Tom had been saying over to himself for the past two hours seemed to vanish into thin air before this excited little audience.  But in faltering, stammering tones, which everyone was too excited to notice, he managed to say something about “Merry Christmas” and “good children” and then proceeded to open the magic sack.  “Miss Kitty McGinnis!” he called, in deep, gruff tones.  Kitty took the box he offered with shy embarrassment, slowly drew back the lid and gave a cry of amazement and delight.  “A doll, O the loveliest doll that ever was!” she cried.  Then turning to her brother, she whispered as softly as excitement would permit, “O Harvey, I’m afeard ye paid too much!”

“Aw, go on!” said Harvey, his face more like a full moon than ever.  “Don’t ye know that Santy kin do whatever he wants to?”

The other dolls were received with raptures, Josephine stroking the golden curls of the Lady Matilda with wondering fingers, and the baby dancing round and round, waving the pink-robed Lady Clarabel above her head.

“Mr. Harvey McGinnis!” came the gruff tones of Santa Claus; and Harvey smiled over to his mother as he drew out a pair of stout cloth gloves.

“Mrs. McGinnis!” And that good lady smiled back, as she shook out a dainty white apron with a coarse embroidery ruffle.

“I reckon Santy wanted you to wear that of a Sunday afternoon,” said Harvey, awkwardly.

“And I’ll be proud to do it!” said his mother.

Little sacks of candy were next produced and everyone settled down to enjoy it, thinking that the bottom of the big sack must be reached, when Santa called out in tones that trembled beneath the gruffness, “Another package for Mr. Harvey McGinnis!”

“Fer me—­why—­what—­” said Harvey, taking the heavy oblong bundle; then, as the sparkling “Club House” skates met his view, his face lit up with a glory that Tom never forgot.  The glory lasted but a moment, then he turned a troubled face toward the bulky old saint.

“You never ought to a done it,” he said.  “These must have cost a lot!”

“Aw, go on,” was the reply in a distinctly boyish tone, “don’t you know that Santy can do whatever he wants to?” and, with a prodigious bow, old Santa was gone.

A few minutes later, a slender boy with a bundle under his arm, was skating swiftly down the shining river in the moonlight.  As he rounded the bend, a tall figure in a fur-trimmed coat came skimming slowly toward him, and a voice called out in Ralph Evans’ condescending tones, “Well, how are the ‘Jolly Ramblers’ doing tonight?”

But the answer, this time, was clear and glad and triumphant.  “The best in the world,” said Tom, “and isn’t this the glorious night for skating?”

THE WORKER IN SANDALWOOD[*]

By Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

The good cure of Terminaison says that this tale of Hyacinthe’s is all a dream.  But then Madame points triumphantly to the little cabinet of sandalwood in the corner of her room.  It had stood there for many years now, and the dust has gathered in the fine lines of the little birds’ feathers, and softened the petals of the lilies carved at the corners.  And the wood has taken on a golden gleam like the memory of a sunset.