“They go!” answered the little boy. “And they set other things going, too, if you want ’em.” He indicated an array near by: fountains, a man sawing wood, a printing press, and the like. “You ’tach ’em by a thread. See that one up there?” He pointed to a large cylinder of grey burnished steel. His tone fell to one of reverence. “It pumps water!” “Goodness!” exclaimed Violet with delightful appreciation. “I’m so glad to talk to you because I have a little boy myself, but he isn’t as big as you—he’s only six weeks old.” “Gee!” said the little boy with his angelic smile. “I never knew any one as little as that.” He stopped disapprovingly. “Why, that’s only a _baby_!” “Ah, that’s what people call him,” said Violet, sagely; “they think he can’t even talk. Of course he doesn’t really say anything, but we have long conversations together—I always know what he means.” The little boy nodded. “My mamma and I talk that way too,” he said simply. “Then there’s another one—I wish you’d tell me what to buy for him—he’s about seventy or eighty years older.” “But that’s an old man!” cried the boy in wonder. Violet shook her head. “Oh, no! Of course, that’s what people call him,” she explained again, tolerantly; “but we know better.” The boy looked at her debatingly. “Is it ‘Once Upon a Time,’ or is it ‘A True Story’?” he asked. “It’s both,” said Violet. Their eyes met this time in the joyousness of mutual understanding. “I like you, I like you,” cried the little boy, and tucked his hand into hers, jumping along with both feet in short flying leaps. “Come here! I’ll show you what to buy for him, I’ll show you; _that_! Oh, there’s my papa beckoning to me!” He dropped her hand and disappeared like a flash in the crowd by the stairs. “Well,” said Violet to herself, staring in front of her. “Well—why not?” “I couldn’t get here a minute sooner—I _had_ to lie down after I got them all out of the house.” Mrs. Tom, arriving late at the paternal mansion on Christmas afternoon, was taking off her wraps in the hall as she looked in at the circle of sisters-in-law sitting around the fire in the drawing-room, warm with the smell of cedar, and bedecked with scarlet holly. Through the open doorway beyond the mahogany table, set with the old white-and-gold china, showed promise of good things to come. “How cozy you all look in here—but where are the others?” asked Mrs. Tom. Miss Clara spread out her hands with a gesture of dismay, belied by her beaming face. “Well, you’ll never guess—every man and boy is up-stairs with father, trying to run that crazy engine Violet sent him; it’s one of those dreadful electrical things. If I’d had the remotest idea what was in the box—and she never even told Arthur! You can’t get one of them out of that room, except to—— Listen to that!” A boy’s footsteps came hurtling down the back stairs, and a moment later an excited voice called: “Will it work?” “No,” came from above. “Oh, I see what’s the matter. Will it work now?”