Jim was at length brought to bay by a good-looking dark girl in a neat black dress. There was a touch of Dora about her, and as she smiled in a friendly way upon the very tall customer, Jim told her just exactly what he wanted, and the dark girl’s suggestions were so practical and tasteful that his presents subsequently proved great successes. For that voluble dame, Mrs Maybury, and her elder step-daughter, Miss H. R. Maybury, he bought neat little velvet handbags of the kind ladies carry when they take walks abroad; for Frank he got a huge knife, containing, among other wonders, an implement for extracting stones from horses’ hoofs--no boy’s knife, indeed, seems complete without this strange appendage, which is never by any chance used for the humane purpose it is intended for. For Dora, Jim bought a little writing-case made of light brown leather. Upon the corner he had an initial "D" affixed, in silver. This addition was expeditiously made while he waited. Jim knew that he must be very discreet in the kind of present he gave to Dora, so he chose something that looked quite simple, though, as a matter of fact, the little writing-case cost him more than the other three presents put together. The dark girl, with her quick instinct, seemed to read in Jim’s eyes that this was a _very_ special present, for Jim looked at eleven other writing-cases before he fixed on the brown one. The presents were packed up at last, and Jim told the dark girl he was very much obliged to her, and that he was afraid he had given her a great deal of trouble. But the dark girl said that he hadn’t given the slightest trouble, and hoped he would come there for his presents next Christmas, which Jim promised faithfully to do. When he got back to his surgery he made up some medicine, and then sat down by the fire to smoke. And while he smoked he wondered whether his grandfather was thinking of him, and whether they would ever be re-united. Judging from his grandfather’s stern silence, it seemed that he and the dear old home at Threeways were destined to be strangers for evermore. Now it happened that the enterprising son of a Mount Street tradesman had taken a snapshot of Jim one sunny November afternoon, as the Long ’Un was standing by his surgery door. The snapshot showed a good deal of the building as well as its occupier, and made a good picture. The youth had subsequently given Jim a mounted copy of the photo. "I’ll send the old man a Christmas card," said Jim, and straightway took the photo off his mantelpiece and wrote upon its back: "_The present quarters of your affectionate grandson, Jim. Wishing you a Happy Christmas._" He put his Mount Street address under this message, and on his way to No. 9, posted the photo to his grandfather.