The business men said so, and agreed with the authorities that Jack was a nuisance to the town. Some of those who had assisted in his downfall spoke of him as a "dirty loafer," and even the bar-rooms, where he had "spent all," tolerated his presence only when the cruel pity of some patron called him in for a treat, or when he could exhibit some coin. It was through the "tender mercies of the wicked" to Jack that there were three empty stockings in the Roande home on the recent Christmas Eve. "For the children's sake," there had been a tearful plea that the husband would be home Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. With glad expectancy the meagre resources of the pantry were combined by loving hands to give the nearest possible approach to a feast. From the near-by woods the children had brought cedar and pine for decorative purposes, and these, with stray bits of brightly-coloured tissue paper, had done much to give the home a Christmas appearance. The usual notes had been written to Santa Claus, and the mother-heart had lovingly suggested a curtailment of such requests as Santa might find it difficult to grant. The little ones had thrown their letters into the fire, and watched some of the gauzy ashes carried up the chimney to the mysterious but generous friend of the children, who would soon be loading his sleigh somewhere in the far north. Jack appeared to respond to his wife's pleadings, and so on account of her many home duties she confided to him some of the requests the children had made, and how the much-coveted toys were parcelled and waiting to be called for at one of the down-town stores. No word was spoken of the sacrifice the purchases had involved, nor of the sting love had endured when for the children's sake she began to take in sewing. It was therefore agreed that Jack should bring the parcel home shortly before tea on Christmas Eve, and in the darkness it could be hidden away until the little ones were asleep. Jack was true to his word, and started for home with the precious toys under his arm, in ample time for the evening meal. "Merry Christmas, Jack," called a voice as Jack was rounding the saloon corner; "come on in and have one." "Guess I'd better get home," was the hesitating reply. It needed little persuasion, however, to get Jack inside, and after a second treat he lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready for a night's debauch. During the tea-hour the bar patrons became fewer, and Jack's chances for further drinks were far apart. In response to a request to "chalk up a couple of whiskeys," he received an emphatic "not on your life" from the bar-tender. There was a momentary conflict within Jack, and then the beast became lord over the man. Going to the corner he brought his parcel from the bench and placed it on the bar. "How much can I draw on for that?" There was a wild determination in the voice. Unwrapping the parcel beneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew what the contents meant.