suppose? Never mind, I’ll enjoy having her hanging on to my skirts. I never had no children myself. Well, I was just getting over the first shyness and beginning to enjoy married life when all of a sudden that Crimeen war broke out and my poor William had to leave me. Well, it was a mean crime, and no mistake. Got to start off to the theatre now? Wrap yourselves up well, for it’s biting cold to-night. It’s my opinion we’re in for a real old-fashioned Christmas. Good job, too, I say, the size women are wearing their sleeves nowadays. Balloon sleeves they call them. Balloonatic sleeves I should say. Well, toora-loora!! I’ll pop your little girl into her cot and have the kettle on the boil for you when you come back. Ugh! What a perishing evening!” The vagabonds arm-in-arm set out toward the theatre, the north wind blowing fiercely up Starboard Alley across the Thames from Barking Flats—a searching wind, fierce and bitter. The _Dick Whittington_ company had been rehearsing hard during the previous week, and now two days before the production on Boxing Day it was seeming incredible that the management would ever have the impudence to demand the public’s money to see such a hopelessly inadequate performance. “We’ve been in some bad shows, my dear,” Bram said to Nancy on their way to the theatre, “but I think this is the worst.” “I’m too tired to know anything about it. But your songs will go all right, I’m sure.” He shook his head doubtfully. “Yes, but that fellow Sturt who plays the Dame is a naughty actor. He really is dire. I simply cannot get him to work in with me. That’s the worst of taking a fellow from the Halls. He hasn’t an elementary notion how to help other people. He can’t see that it takes two people to make a scene funny.” “Never mind,” said Nancy, yawning. “It’ll all be splendid, I expect, on Wednesday. Oh, dear, I am tired. They’ve given you a good trap-act in the Harlequinade.” “Yes, that’s all right. But do you know, Nancy, it’s a queer thing, but I funk trap-acts. I’m never happy till I’ve gone through the last one.” He stopped short and struck his forehead. “Great Scott!” “What is the matter?” “We haven’t got anything for Letizia’s stocking?” “Bram!” “What time were we called again?” “Six o’clock.” “Look here,” he said, “you go round and collect some toys from a toyshop. I’ll make an excuse to Worsley if by any chance he wants the Fairy Queen at the beginning. But he won’t. He wants to get the shipwreck right. We shall probably be on that till nearly midnight.” So Nancy left Bram at the stage-door and went on to do her shopping. The streets were crowded with people, and in spite of the cold wind everybody was looking cheerful. The shops, too, with their brightly lit windows all decorated with frosted cotton-wool and holly, exhaled that authentic Christmas glow, which touches all but hearts too long barren and heads too long empty. The man who sneers at Christmas is fair game for the Father of Lies.