“Aren’t we going to have a tree, father?” demanded Moreton, aggressively.  “Mother won’t tell us—­neither will Miss Allsop.”

Miss Allsop was their governess.

“Why do you want a tree?” I asked.

“Oh, for Biddy,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree,” Matthew declared, “—­and Santa Claus,” he added, for his sister’s benefit.

“Perhaps Santa Claus, when he sees we’ve got this big house, will think we don’t need anything, and go on to some poorer children,” said Maude.  “You wouldn’t blame him if he did that,—­would you?”

The response to this appeal cannot be said to have been enthusiastic....

After dinner, when at last all of them were in bed, we dressed the tree; it might better be said that Maude and Miss Allsop dressed it, while I gave a perfunctory aid.  Both the women took such a joy in the process, vying with each other in getting effects, and as I watched them eagerly draping the tinsel and pinning on the glittering ornaments I wondered why it was that I was unable to find the same joy as they.  Thus it had been every Christmas eve.  I was always tired when I got home, and after dinner relaxation set in.

An electrician had come while we were at the table, and had fastened on the little electric bulbs which did duty as candles.

“Oh,” said Maude, as she stood off to survey the effect, “isn’t it beautiful!  Come, Miss Allsop, let’s get the presents.”

They flew out of the room, and presently hurried back with their arms full of the usual parcels:  parcels from Maude’s family in Elkington, from my own relatives, from the Blackwoods and the Peterses, from Nancy.  In the meantime I had had my own contributions brought up, the man of war, the locomotive, the big doll.  Maude stood staring.

“Hugh, they’ll be utterly ruined!” she exclaimed.

“The boys might as well have something instructive,” I replied, “and as for Biddy—­nothing’s too good for her.”

“I might have known you wouldn’t forget them, although you are so busy."....

We filled the three stockings hung by the great fireplace.  Then, with a last lingering look at the brightness of the tree, she stood in the doorway and turned the electric switch.

“Not before seven to-morrow morning, Miss Allsop,” she said.  “Hugh, you will get up, won’t you?  You mustn’t miss seeing them.  You can go back to bed again.”

I promised.

Evidently, this was Reality to Maude.  And had it not been one of my dreams of marriage, this preparing for the children’s Christmas, remembering the fierce desires of my own childhood?  It struck me, after I had kissed her good night and retired to my dressing-room, that fierce desires burned within me still, but the objects towards which their flames leaped out differed.  That was all.  Had I remained a child, since my idea of pleasure was still that of youth?  The craving far excitement, adventure,