"By Jove, Bingle, I have a splendid scheme. What could be more fitting than that these child-seekers should receive just what they want on Christmas morning? That's the ticket, my dear," he said, turning to his wife. "Fix it so that a child is delivered bright and early on Christmas morning--in its own stockings, of course--and there you are! A Merry Christmas for everybody, and perhaps a Happy New Year. What do you think of it, Bingle?" "Splendid!" said Mr. Bingle. "I wish I could have thought of that when I was in the business myself. It would have been great to have a new baby every Christmas morning. I will agree to that, Mrs. Force, provided I approve of the people I'm supposed to be Santa Claus for." On the Saturday before Christmas he went to the offices of the Society with ALL of the children, for the industrious Mrs. Force had produced claimants for the three older ones, and when he took the brood home to supper long after seven o'clock that evening, homes and fresh parents were assured for all of them. To be sure, Frederick and Marie Louise objected to living on upstate farms, and Reginald howled bitterly over being promised to a Jewish family in West End Avenue. He had set his heart on being brought up as an Irishman. Some of them were to remain in New York City, one was to go to Philadelphia and another to Bridgeport. Harold, Rosemary and Rutherford were to undergo a complete change of name. They were going into families where for sentimental reasons, a John, a Betty and a Jeremiah were wanted. Guinivere stood in grave danger of being called Prue, after somebody's grandmother, and Henrietta was to be shortened to Etta. It was understood that the agents from the Society were to call for the youngsters on Christmas Eve, so that they might be ready for delivery the first thing in the morning. The Society was prepared to attend to all of the legal requirements incident to the transfer. Mr. Bingle was to sign what he quaintly called a "blanket affidavit," covering the entire collection, and that was to be the end of the Bingle regime. Christmas Eve came at last. The day had been bitterly cold, and Mr. Bingle coming in from his final walk with the four small children, who had been taken out to see the lighted shop windows before the last supper they were to have together, was blue in the face and shivering as with a chill. Melissa caught him in the act of removing his muffler from Rosemary's neck. He had already taken his thin overcoat from Harold's shoulders, so she missed that part of his personal sacrifice. She asked with considerable asperity if he was trying to get pneumonia. "No," said Mr. Bingle, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering; "I'm not, Melissa. I'm trying to head off the croup." "You'll probably have it yourself to-night." "I think that would be rather jolly," he said. "I haven't had it since I was the size of Rosemary."