"It's a sort of a writing-desk for him to carry around in his grip when he goes away, so he can write any time he wants to. See the paper, business size, letter and note paper. Here is a box for stamps, and there is a place for pen and pencils. I wanted to get him a fountain pen, too, but mamma said she would attend to that, to be sure it was a nice one. I can just see him now when he opens it. Oh, I wish Christmas would hurry! What are you going to give your father, Puss?" Tabitha's face flushed scarlet, and she murmured in embarrassment, "I don't believe he cares anything about Christmas. He never has observed it since I can remember." "Oh!" said Carrie. "Well, I must take my box back and wrap it up. Where are you going?" "It is nearly time for our walk and Miss Pomeroy has promised some of us a tramp to town for tissue paper, ribbon, cards and such little things that won't take long to get. Didn't you know? Ask her if you can't go. I think there are only six or seven of us so far. One more will only make it the jollier." "I would like to," answered Carrie wistfully, "but this is my hour to practice for the cantata. Bye-bye!" Carrie whisked across the hall to her room and Tabitha, haunted by that careless question, descended the stairs to wait for the group of shoppers to gather. The day was bright and warm, the winter rains had washed the dusty foliage clean, and it seemed as if spring had already begun in this California city; but there was no answering note of joy in Tabitha's heart. Why had Carrie shown her the pretty writing-desk? What had prompted her to speak such disquieting words? Ought she to send something to the stern father who did not care? "One should give only from ze happiness of ze heart, Madeline." Madame's gentle voice floated back to Tabitha, speaking the same sentiment she had voiced to the black-haired girl a few weeks before. "A gift from a sense of duty is no gift at all." "Then," thought Tabitha, "that settles my difficulty. I could give only from a sense of duty. I should like to love him, but he won't let me." "But sink how lonely he may be, ze cross old uncle you talk about! Doesn't it make you sorry?" came another snatch of conversation. "Perhaps he loves you more zan you sink. Oh, yes, I should get him somesing--a calendar or a card or maybe write a letter; but don't do it because you sink you ought. If he feels zat you really want to cheer him, it will make him happy even if he is cross."