"You say that one night of every winter you drive round the earth in your sleigh, carrying presents. Every summer don't you disguise yourself and drive over the same track in an old cart and gather them up again? Many a summer day I have watched you without your knowing it!" This time you could have believed that if evergreens are sensitive, the fir now stood with its boughs lowered a little pensively and very still. "I am sorry! The question violates the same mischief-making rule, and by my word I am bound not to answer it. But it is as easy to give a promise to two as to one; next year I hope you will receive a little book called _Santa Claus with the Wounded and the Lost_. And I wish you joy in that story. Now then!" "Father told me not to ask any questions while I was over here: to wait and ask _him_." The little theatre of make-believe almost crumbled to its foundations beneath that one touch of reality! The great personage of the drama lost control of his resources for a moment. Then the little miracle-play was successfully resumed:-- "Well, then, I won't have to answer any questions for you!" "But I can tell you what I was _going_ to ask! I was going to ask you if you are married. And if you are, why you travel always without your wife. I was wondering whether you didn't like _your_ wife!" The answer came like a blinding flash--like a flash meant to extinguish another flash:-- "A book, a book! Another book! There will have to be another book! Look out for one next Christmas, dropped down the chimney especially for you: and I hope it won't fall into the fire or into the soot--_Santa Claus and_ his _Wife_. Now then--time flies!" During the infantile years when the heir of the house had been a believer in the figure beside the Tree, there had always been one point he jealously weighed: whether children of white complexion were not entitled to a larger share of Christmas bounty than those of red or yellow or brown or black faces; and in particular whether among all white children those native to the United States ought not to receive highest consideration. The old question now rang out: "What do _you_ think of the immigrants?" The Tree did not exactly laugh aloud, but it certainly laughed all over--with hearty wholesome approving laughter. "That question is the worst offender of all; it is quarrelsome! It is the most quarrelsome question that could be asked. What are immigrants to me? But next year look out for a book called _Santa Claus on Immigrants_." "Put plenty of gore in it!" "Gore! Gore on Christmas Eve! But if there was gore, since it is in a book, it would have to be dry gore. But wouldn't salve be better--salve for old wounds?" "If you're going to put salve in, you might use my Waterloo salve!" "Don't be peculiar, Herbert--especially away from home!" Certainly the Tree was shaken with laughter this time.