“I did my level best,” he replied. “Now look here. Do you see that parcel? Open it. It is a silk gown—my Christmas present to you, all ready for you to wear to church to-morrow. It was fitted on Maggie Finch, as she is your size and shape.” With trembling fingers Mrs. Birdwood opened the parcel and drew forth a really gorgeous silk dress. “Oh!” she said, “and that Finch——” “She served as dummy on which to fit it, you know.” “And that was all that took you to Miss Thomas’s?” “What more do you want? Not an evening dress also—low-breasted and shoulder-straps?” “Oh! oh! oh! Josiah, I have been so wicked. I thought—but never mind what I thought. I intended to run away and desert you—fancy!—for ever.” “Pshaw! you couldn’t do it.” “And to take up with a commercial!” “My dear, you couldn’t do it.” “And his name Fisher.” “Not a humming-bird, but a king-fisher, I suppose.” “But in the hosiery and haberdashery line.” “You couldn’t do it.” “I really believe you are right,” said Mrs. Birdwood, throwing herself on his neck and bursting into tears. “There, there, dear; that will suffice,” said Josiah. “And,” asked his wife, “what did you think when I disappeared?” “I didn’t think anything about it. I knew it was all right.” “And what have you been doing without me?” “Well, I have been trying to make up my mind whether to have a span or a lean-to conservatory.” “You are positively incorrigible.” “Then I tried my hand on the plum-pudding and failed. So now we shall have to do without.” “No, ten thousand times no,” replied Mrs. Birdwood triumphantly. She went to a corner cupboard, unlocked it, produced a tin, took off the lid. “Here—here is a real plum-pudding for our happy Christmas dinner.” “And,” said Mr. Birdwood, “I bought a sprig of mistletoe at the door, and will kiss you under it.” A CHRISTMAS TREE A CHRISTMAS TREE Tom Mountstephen was dressed in his very best—a black coat, a tie of blue satin studded with veritable planets, and in it a new zodiacal sign—a fox in full career, that formed the head of a pin. Tom’s collar was so stiffly starched and so high that to turn his head and look over the top of that Wall of China was impossible. If he desired to see that which lay to his right or left, he was compelled to turn his entire body, as on a pivot. Tom was unaccustomed to such a “rig out,” and therefore did not look happy in it. Tom in his workaday suit, of the colour of the earth, with a string tied under his knees, gathering the trouser together, and with a dusty slouched wideawake stuck at the back of his head, but on one side of that, and with his great, honest, cheery face, ever with a smile on the lips and a dancing light in his eyes—thus Tom was picturesque, delightful. But Tom in his Sunday best did not look at his best.