"I--I tol' her," explained Mike uncomfortably, "that she mustn't open her mouth once--jus' act deaf an' dumb or you'd guess maybe an' send her home an' Mom Murphy'd git her. An'--an'--she must take a drum like a boy--" Literal Muggs! Heaven alone knew by what other blood-thirsty threats than Mom Murphy Mike had encompassed the stony silence and frenzied drumming of the little sister who had never had a Christmas. "But why," burst forth the despairing Doctor. "In heaven's name--why--Muggs?" "She makes such awful faces," said Mike apologetically. "Mom don't know what makes her that way." And then as Muggs was at the climax of one of the spasms that had won her her name, the Doctor suddenly lifted her in gentle arms and tossed her to the ceiling. "Poor, poor little kiddy!" he said huskily. "What a price she's paid for her Christmas." But Muggs had forgotten the price. Though it had been a hard day the Doctor's eyes were kind and twinkly. Muggs buried her flushed and tearful little face on his shoulder with a sigh of content. He saw now that one knot of ribbon on the tousled, sunny curls would have told the story, then he glanced at the bagging suit and opened the door. Muggs went forth upon the Doctor's shoulder. "Asher," cried the Doctor, "hitch old Polly to the sleigh and telephone Sam Remsen that he can oblige me for once and open his store." "Ye--ye ain't goin' to send her home, are ye?" faltered Mike. "I'm going," cried the Doctor, "to buy Clara Muggs a dress and a doll. It's her night." The boys cheered. End of Project Gutenberg's When the Yule Log Burns, by Leona Dalrymple