ent would permit, "O Harvey, I'm afeard ye paid too much!"

"Aw, go on!" said Harvey, his face more like a full moon than ever.
"Don't ye know that Santy kin do whatever he wants to?"

The other dolls were received with raptures, Josephine stroking the
golden curls of the Lady Matilda with wondering fingers, and the baby
dancing round and round, waving the pink-robed Lady Clarabel above her
head.

"Mr. Harvey McGinnis!" came the gruff tones of Santa Claus; and Harvey
smiled over to his mother as he drew out a pair of stout cloth gloves.

"Mrs. McGinnis!" And that good lady smiled back, as she shook out a
dainty white apron with a coarse embroidery ruffle.

"I reckon Santy wanted you to wear that of a Sunday afternoon," said
Harvey, awkwardly.

"And I'll be proud to do it!" said his mother.

Little sacks of candy were next produced and everyone settled down to
enjoy it, thinking that the bottom of the big sack must be reached,
when Santa called out in tones that trembled beneath the gruffness,
"Another package for Mr. Harvey McGinnis!"

"Fer me--why--what--" said Harvey, taking the heavy oblong bundle;
then, as the sparkling "Club House" skates met his view, his face lit
up with a glory that Tom never forgot. The glory lasted but a moment,
then he turned a troubled face toward the bulky old saint.

"You never ought to a done it," he said. "These must have cost a lot!"

"Aw, go on," was the reply in a distinctly boyish tone, "don't you
know that Santy can do whatever he wants to?" and, with a prodigious
bow, old Santa was gone.

A few minutes later, a slender boy with a bundle under his arm, was
skating swiftly down the shining river in the moonlight. As he rounded
the bend, a tall figure in a fur-trimmed coat came skimming slowly
toward him, and a voice called out in Ralph Evans' condescending
tones, "Well, how are the 'Jolly Ramblers' doing tonight?"

But the answer, this time, was clear and glad and triumphant. "The
best in the world," said Tom, "and isn't this the glorious night for
skating?"

THE WORKER IN SANDALWOOD[*]

By Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

The good cure of Terminaison says that this tale of Hyacinthe's is all
a dream. But then Madame points triumphantly to the little cabinet of
sandalwood in the corner of her room. It had stood there for many
years now, and the dust has gathered in the fine lines of the little
birds' feathers, and softened the petals of the lilies carved at the
co