People are hurrying to and fro, laughing, talking, pausing now and again to wish each other the compliments of the season. Children stand at the shop windows, gazing in wonder and delight at the gorgeous toys, the pretty picture-books, and the numerous games which make them look like fairyland. The bright red berries of the holly shine and sparkle in the brilliant light, the mistletoe hangs temptingly overhead, the turkeys and geese are garlanded with ribbons and decked with green. Inside the shop of Messrs. Gotch and Parker, the eminent jewellers, a young man is buying an exquisite brooch. "I think, mother, that this will please her," he remarks to the well-dressed woman seated close by. Look at the laughing blue eyes, the fresh-coloured cheeks, the winning smile. Surely this young gentleman is an old acquaintance. Mr. Boden, the shopman calls him; but to us he is Dick, or Dicky, or the Angel, just as memory prompts. "Thanks," he says, placing the tiny packet in his pocket. "Now, mother, lean on my arm." Yes, it certainly is our light-hearted Dick, whom we will take the liberty of following, as he pilots his mother through the crowded streets, then into the quieter part of the town, and so to the foot of a fairly steep hill facing the sea. He is evidently well known in Beauleigh, and respected, too, one would imagine. Many people stop to shake his hand, and to wish him a "merry Christmas." Some are poor, other well-to-do; but their wealth or poverty makes no difference in the warmth of his greeting. It is easy to see that things have prospered with him, but he is just as kind and generous and simple-hearted as in the old days. "O my aunt!" he exclaims with a boyish laugh, looking at the hill; "fancy having this to climb! You’ll need a rest, mother, by the time we reach the top!" Mrs. Boden smiles, and glances proudly at the handsome young fellow on whose arm she is leaning. It must needs be a steep hill she could not climb with him to help her. They are up at last, and a stream of light comes from the open doorway of a large, old-fashioned house. "There he is!" cries Dick excitedly; and the next instant he is shaking hands with another young fellow, who pulls him laughingly inside. "Come along, old man!—Come along, Mrs. Boden!" he exclaims. "A merry Christmas to you both!" "The same to you, Jim, and many of ’em. You’re looking well, old chap, considering that heavy grind.—A merry Christmas, Mrs. Hartland! See, you have half killed mother! How? Why, by living up in the clouds. You ought to keep a special tramway for your guests—’pon my word you ought." "Quite right, Dick, my boy!" exclaims a deep voice; and a tanned, bearded man comes into the room with a sailor-like roll. "Let me congratulate you on your appointment, Mr. Hartland," cries Dick. "No more ploughing the salt seas for you!" John Hartland has just procured the berth of traffic manager to the harbour board.