"Not want you?" I protested. "What rubbish!" Father Christmas dipped his hand into his sack and brought out a card of greeting. Carefully adjusting a pair of horn spectacles to his nose he prepared to read. "Listen to this," he said. "It's from Alfred to Eliza." He looked at me over his glasses. "I don't know if you know them at all?" "I don't think so." "An ordinary printed card with robins and snow and so forth on it. And it says"--his voice trembled with indignation--"it says, 'Wishing you a very happy ----' Censored, Sir! Censored, at _my_ time of life. There's your War Office again." "I think that's a joke of the publisher's," I said soothingly. "Oh, if it's humour, I don't mind. Nobody is more partial to mirth and jollity than I am." He began to chuckle to himself. "There's my joke about the 'rain, dear'; I don't know if you know that?" I said I didn't; he wanted cheering up. But though he was happy while he was telling it to me he soon became depressed again. "Look here," I said sternly, "this is absurd of you. Christmas is chiefly a children's festival. Grown-ups won't give each other so many presents this year, but we shall still remember the children, and we shall give you plenty to do seeing after _them_. Why," I went on boastfully, "you've got four of my presents in there at this moment. The book for Margery, and the box of soldiers, and the Jumping Tiger and----" Father Christmas held up his hand and stopped me. "It's no good," he said, "you can't deceive _me_. After a good many years at the business I'm rather sensitive to impressions." He wagged a finger at me. "Now then, uncle. Was your whole heart in it when you bought that box of soldiers, or did you do it with an effort, telling yourself that the children mustn't be forgotten--and knowing quite well that you _had_ forgotten them?" "One has a--a good deal to think about just now," I said uneasily. "Oh, I'm not blaming you; everybody's the same; but it makes it much less jolly for _me_, that's all. You see, I can't help knowing. Why, even your Aunt Emily, when she bought you that delightful blotter ... which you have your foot on ... even _she_ bought it in a different way from last year's. Last year she gave a lot of happy thought to it, and decided in the middle of the night that a blotter was the one thing you wanted. This year she said, 'I suppose he'd better have his usual blotter, or he'll think I've forgotten him.' Kind of her, of course (as, no doubt, you've said in your letter), but not the jolly Christmas spirit." "I suppose not," I said. Father Christmas sighed again and got up. "Well, I must be trotting along. Perhaps next year they'll want me again. Good-bye." "Good-bye. You're quite sure there's nothing else for me?" "Quite sure," he said, glancing into his bag. "Hallo, what's this?" He drew out a letter. It had O.H.M.S. on it, and was addressed to "Father Christmas."