have gone, never! never! There!" she exclaimed, and threw back the miniature into the basket, closing it with violence, as she did so, as one may shut an unpleasant book read and done with.

For a moment, and with firmer face, she considered the letter, reading scraps of it aloud, as if testing her resolution to make an end of it all. "Hard, was I? Yes. Would I had been sooner hard. My children would have been better off. 'I went because you bid me.' Yes I did. Will he ever know what that cost me? 'I shall never come again until you bid me come.' Not in this world then?" she cried. "O Hugh! Hugh!" And in a passion of tears that told of a too great trial, still resolute despite her partial defeat, she tore the letter and cast it on the fire. "There!" she cried, "would to God I loved him less." And then, with strange firmness, she took up a book, and sternly set herself to comprehend what she read.

The hours went by and at last she rose wearily, put out one candle, raked ashes over the embers, and taking the other light, went slowly up to bed. She paused a moment at the nursery door where she heard voices. "What! awake still?"

"We was only talking about Khwis," said the small boy. "We won't any more, will we, Alice? She thinks he won't come, but I think he will come because we are both so good all to-day."

"No, no, he will not come this Christmas, my darlings. Go to sleep. Go to sleep," and with too full a heart she turned away.

But the usual tranquil slumber of childhood was not theirs. The immense fact that they were soon to leave their home troubled the imaginative little man. Then, too, a great wind began to sweep over the hills and to shake the snow-laden pines. On its way, it carried anew from the ice of the river wild sounds of disturbance and at last, in the mid hours of night, an avalanche of snow slid from the roof. Hugh sat up; he realized well enough what had happened. But presently the quick ear of childhood was aware of other, and less familiar sounds. Was it Kris Kringle? Oh! if he could only see him once! He touched the sister asleep in her bed near by, and at last shook her gently.

"What is it, Hugh?" she said.

"I hear Khwis. I know it is Khwis!"

"O Hugh! I hear too, but it might be a robber."

"No, nevah on Chwistmas Eve. It couldn't be a wobber. It is Khwis. I mean to go and see. I hear him outside. You know, Alice, there is nevah, nevah any wickedness on Chwistmas Eve."

"But if it is a robber he might take you away."

"Oh! wobbers steal girls, but they nevah, nevah steal boys, and you needn't go."

"But are you sure? Oh! do listen," she added. Both heard the creaking noise of footsteps in the dry snow.

"Mr. Khwis Kwingle, Are You There? Or Is You A Wobber?"

"I will look—I must look," cried Hugh, slipping from his bed. In a moment he had raised the sash and was looking out into the night. The sounds he had heard ceased. He could see no one. "He has gone, Alice." Then he cried, "Mr. Khwis Kwingle, are you there? or is you a wobber?" As he spoke a cloaked man came from behind a great pine and stood amid the thickly-fallen flakes.

"Why, that is Hugh," he said. "Hugh!"

"He does know my name," whispered the lad to the small counsellor now at his side.

"And, of course, I am Kris Kringle. And I have a bag full of presents. But come softly down and let me in, and don't make a noise or away I go; and bring Alice."

The girl was still in doubt, but