“I know it!” said the miniature woman, tenderly. “But, Ally, dear, Papa and Mamma _do_ love us! Only they don’t know how much we think of Christmas, and how children love to hang up their stockings, and all that. But that was a very naughty boy that told you they didn’t care for you. Papa works _ever_ so hard to get clothes and food for us, so Mamma says; and Mamma sews for us, and takes care of us when we are sick, and--and--a great many other kind things.” “Maybe so; but she was awful cross to-night, and scolded like every thing, just for nothing at all, and I am very miserable! Just hear the boys shouting out-doors, and the people laughing and talking, as they go along! It’s downright mean in them, when they might know that there isn’t to be any Christmas in our house. I wish they would be still! I wish I was dead!” “Ally, Ally, that is wicked!” expostulated the gentle tones of the sister. “I don’t care! where is the sense of living, if a fellow is never to have any fun? Where is the use of being good? If I was the wickedest boy in town, I could not be treated worse than I am now. How I hate this stupid old house! When I am a man, and have boys and girls of my own, I mean that Santa Claus shall come every week and bring them--oh, such lots of nice things! and you shall live with me, Nettie, and we will fry doughnuts and have New Year’s cake every day!” “Ally!” said Nettie, thoughtfully, “do you suppose there is such a man as Santa Claus? Mamma says there isn’t!” “I _know_ there is!” returned the boy, confidently. “But he doesn’t come to a house unless the father and mother of the children that live there send him an invitation. One of the big boys told me so, to-day. And good fathers and mothers always tell him what to bring.” “I was just thinking,” resumed Nettie’s liquid treble, “if Our Heavenly Father knew how very badly we wanted to have a Christmas, whether He wouldn’t send him to us. Suppose I pray to Him and tell Him all about it!” “You may try it!” was the conclusion of the embryo skeptic. “But I don’t believe it will do any good.” In a trice, Nettie had slipped to the floor, and was fumbling among a heap of clothes laid upon a chair. Mr. Dryden watched her curiously. “Now, Ally!” he heard her say, presently, “Here are the clean stockings that Ellen got out for us to put on to-morrow. Mamma wouldn’t like it if we hung them up ourselves, so I will just lay them on the foot of the bed. If Santa Claus should come, maybe he can pin them up for us.” Then, sinking to her knees, she put her hands together and raised her pure face--angelic in the father’s sight--as the moonbeams revealed its expression of meek devotion.