"Santa Claus can't give you a new leg, Charlie boy," answered Marjorie, her bright face clouding momentarily, "but perhaps some day we can find a good, kind man who will make this poor little leg over like a new one." "When you find him, you'll be sure to tell him all about me, won't you, Marjorie?" he asked eagerly. "As sure as anything," nodded Marjory, brushing his heavy black hair out of his eyes and kissing him gently. "Will you walk down to the drugstore with me, Marjorie?" put in Constance, abruptly. Marjorie glanced up to meet her friend's troubled gaze. In an instant she was on her feet. "It's a good thing I didn't take off my hat and coat. I'm ready to go, you see." "Charlie can watch for us at the window," suggested Constance, hugging the child. "We won't be long." Once outside the house there was an eloquent silence. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" There was a catch in Constance's voice when finally she spoke. "Can't he be cured?" queried Marjorie, softly. "Yes; so a specialist said, if only we had the money." "He is such a quaint child, and he really and truly believes in Santa Claus," mused Marjorie, aloud. "Most children of his age don't." "He's different," was the quick reply. "He has been brought up away from other children and in a world of his own. He believes in fairies, too, good ones and bad ones. But he loves music better than anything else in the world, and his highest ambition in life is to play in the band. If only I had the money to make him well! I'd love to see him strong and sturdy like other children." "You mustn't talk about such sad things to-day, but just be happy," counseled Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. "Charlie is cheerful and jolly in spite of his poor lame leg. Perhaps the New Year will bring you something glorious." "You are so comforting, Marjorie," sighed Constance. "I'll throw all my cares to the winds and keep sunny all day if I can." "I must go now." They entered the little gray house again, just in time to hear remonstrative squeaks from the E string of the diminutive violin, blended with disheartened moans from the A and growls of protest from the G string. "How did you like that?" inquired Charlie, calmly. "It was very noisy," criticised Constance. "It was a very hard passage to play," explained the embryo musician, soberly. "It seems to have been," laughed Marjorie. "That is what Johnny says when he doesn't pay attention and makes a mistake on the fiddle," confided Charlie. Constance's sad look vanished at this naive assertion. "He imitates father and Uncle John in everything," she explained. "He will have played his way through all the music in the house before to-morrow night--most of it upside down, too."