Her face had been radiant when they came into Mr. Jenkins’s store. That poor, gray face with its sunken cheeks and eyes! They bought a turkey—and with what anxious care she had selected it, testing its tenderness, balancing it on her bony hands, examining the scales with keen, narrowed eyes when it was weighed; and a quart of cranberries, a can of mince meat and a can of plum pudding, a head of celery, a pint of Olympia oysters, candy, nuts—and then the toys! She trembled with eagerness. Her husband stood watching her, smiling good-humoredly, his hands in his pockets. Mr. Jenkins indulged in some serious speculation as to where the money was coming from to pay for all this “blow-out”. He set his lips together and resolved that the “blow-out” should not leave the store, under any amount of promises, until the cash paying for it was in his cash-drawer. Suddenly the band began to play across the street. The man threw up his head like an old war-horse at the sound of a bugle note. A fire came into his eyes; into his face a flush of excitement. He walked down to the window and stood looking out, jingling some keys in his pocket. He breathed quickly. After a few moments he went back to his wife. Mr. Jenkins had stepped away to speak to another customer. “Say, Molly, old girl,” he said affectionately, without looking at her, “yuh can spare me enough out o’ that tenner to git a plug o’ tobaccer for Christmas, can’t yuh?” “W’y—I guess so,” said she slowly. The first cloud fell on her happy face. “Well, jest let me have it, an’ I’ll run out an’ be back before yuh’re ready to pay for these here things. I’ll only git two bits’ worth.” She turned very pale. “Can’t yuh git it here, Mart?” “No,” he said in a whisper; “his’n ain’t fit to chew. I’ll be right back, Molly—honest.” She stood motionless, her eyes cast down, thinking. If she refused, he would be angry and remain away from home all the next day to pay her for the insult. If she gave it to him—well, she would have to take the chances. But oh, her hand shook as she drew the small gold piece from her shabby purse and reached it to him. His big, warm hand closed over it. She looked up at him. Her eyes spoke the passionate prayer that her lips could not utter. “Don’t stay long, Mart,” she whispered, not daring to say more. “I won’t, Molly,” he whispered back. “I’ll hurry up. Git anything yuh want.” She finished her poor shopping. Mr. Jenkins wrapped everything up neatly. Then he rubbed his hands together and looked at her, and said: “Well, there now, Mis’ Dupen.” “I—jest lay ’em all together there on the counter,” she said hesitatingly. “I’ll have to wait till Mart comes back before I can pay yuh.” “I see him go into the saloon over there,” piped out the errand boy shrilly. At the end of half an hour she climbed upon the high stool and fixed her eyes upon the saloon opposite and sat there.