Hilda shook her head. “He won’t get mixed up about you any more than he will about me,” she argued, with lips that tried hard not to break into laughter. “Well—now!” he murmured, pinning up the second stocking beside the first. “I—er—mm—” He trailed off into silence; but it could not last long. Something must say itself. “I take that mighty kind in Sandy Claus,” thumping his thumb briskly and never knowing it. “It’s right gentlemanly of him to spend the whole day fixing for—ouch!” suddenly realizing the pounded thumb—“I mean, you know, for him to go a-loping all over the Texas Panhandle hunting for me. If Sandy Claus wasn’t most generally understood to be a man—a little old fat man—I’d say it was plumb sweet of him.” Well, well! Then to bed! It had been a busy day. The sharp tussle with the cows’ Christmas tree in the frosty air had left the little girl ready for deep, dreamless sleep, and it seemed but a moment after she had shut her eyes, when she heard Uncle Hank calling from the kitchen: “Better get up and ’tend to that stocking, or it might take legs and walk away!” She was out of bed with one bound. There was a good fire; and behind the roaring stove hung a stocking that bulged and—yes, and twitched! As she looked, a small three-cornered white ear, pink-lined and furry, came in view above the hem. Its mate followed; and then two round bright eyes with an utterly adorable slant, as a sleepy white kitten looked out and yawned at her. She slipped into her dress, then cried: “It’s alive! It’s a kitten—a real, live, human kitten! Oh, come and see it, Uncle Hank!” Thus invited, the old man gently pushed open the kitchen door and sat down upon its step to share her happiness. “Oh, it’s like a swan’s-down kitten—so white! Did it snow down, Uncle Hank? Oh, isn’t it lovely and dear?” “Why, Sandy Claus brought him,” corrected the old man. Then, coming down to plain facts, he added, reassuringly, “Frosty said you could have your pick. There’s two others; one is a sorrel and one a pinto. I judged you’d like this one the best.” The kitten, as though it thought poorly of these revelations, gave a tiny sneezelike “Whszt!” which set Hilda to laughing, and at this the gay little atom, pretending to be angry, backed off and, like a boxer, began to make passes at the corner of her coat. “He’s a high-spirited kitten, all right,” commented Uncle Hank, watching them with a smile. “But there’s more live stock in that stocking—leastways more things with legs.” Gently Hilda pulled the stocking from its nail, put in a cautious hand and began drawing out fat gingerbread animals. “Oh—a pony!” she cried. “And the gingerbread is just the color of Shorty’s Gold-dust sorrel!” “It’s just as well Shorty can’t hear you—and see that thing,” chuckled Uncle Hank. “I take no pride in that nag. He was a tricky, deceivin’ critter, Pettie; looked well enough in the dough, but, come to bake him, he sort of drawed up in the legs like he was spavined.”