“Goin’ home, uv co’rse,” he said. “Paw’ll be moughty pleased, fur I ’low ez he hain’t hed nothin’ ter eat fur mor’’n a month. I tell yo’ what, Lize, I’ll su’prise him with er Christmas present. ’Tain’t allus ez paw gits er Christmas present.” As Pete and Lize plodded down the valley road, they were very happy in their plans for the future. The dilapidated Larkim shanty seemed a mansion in their unrestrained happiness. It was nearly midnight when Pete and Lize reached the two shanties which for sixteen years had been all that “home” meant to them. Pete pounded loudly on the rough door of the Larkim shanty, eager to present his angry “ole man” his Christmas present, which had brought so much happiness to him. In a moment there was a big bushy head thrust out the little square window at the side, and Pete called,— “Haow are yo’, paw? I’s got a Christmas present fur yo’.” “Naw yo’ hain’t, nuther,” broke in Bill. “What yo’ doin’ ’round hyar ennyways, yo’ young rascal, yo’? Be that Lize?” he yelled, as he recognized the shivering form at Pete’s side. “Uv co’rse,” replied Pete. “We’ve got merred for keeps, an’”—— “Merred!” exclaimed Bill, from his window. “Hain’t yo’ been merred all summer, an’ then yo’ lighted out and left yo’ paw and maw ter starve. Yo’ don’t wan’ ter come sneakin’ ’round hyar, Pete Larkim; if yo’ do, I’ll shoot yo’. I don’t want none o’ yo’ Christmas present.” And the window dropped with a crash. For a moment Pete was silent with astonishment, till Lize, taking him by the hand, said,— “Don’t yo’ keer, Pete. It’s moughty hard luck. But I ’low ez haow Bill Simonds hain’t fergot. Yo’ come er long with me, Pete;” and together they sought refuge under the roof of the Simonds shanty. “Paw hain’t no call ter kick us out,” said Pete, at length. “But I’m moughty glad we went ter the celebrashun, hain’t yo’, Lize?” CHRISTMAS EVE, A FANTASY. [Illustration: Christmas Eve] A FANTASY. R. H. FLETCHER. [Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.] It had been for me a day of toil and weariness and grief. Sick in body and heart, I returned home late at night and threw myself just as I was upon a couch. In an instant slumber came, but not relief. I seemed again to tread the weary streets, crowded with the ever-surging throngs. On the icy-mirror pavements, in the blazing windows of the stores, on the faces of the joyous purchasers,—everywhere was the Christmas glow; and once more in bitterness of spirit I cried out against the hollow mockery and sham. There was a change. All had vanished save the lights. Nor were they frigid, blinding, cruel, as before; a rosy glow, warm, soft, and kind, filled all the room. Before me stood an angel form, whence streamed the radiance. Beautiful was her flowing robe; beautiful must once have been her face, but now the deep lines about the large, appealing eyes, the quavering of the patient lips, and the pallor of the sunken cheeks had marred its symmetry and grace.