had preserved his
gravity, only once volunteering a whisper, that he wished Helen was
there; but Percy thought that when unmolested by attention, he had
seemed quietly amused. When admitted to the Christmas tree in its
glory, he had been slightly afraid of it at first, as of an unexpected
phenomenon, and had squeezed his friend's hand very tight; but as he
perceived how things were going, his alarm had given place to silent
joyous whispers, appropriating his gifts to those at home. He had no
idea of keeping anything for himself; and Percy had distressed him by a
doubt whether the book, as a godfather's gift, ought to be transferred.
On this Johnnie was scrupulous, and Percy had been obliged to relieve
his mind by repeating the question for him to Colonel Harrington,
whether he might give the book to his little brother. This settled,
Johnnie's happiness had been complete, and his ecstasy during their
return, at having a present for everybody, was, said Percy, the
prettiest comment he had ever known on the blessedness of giving.

It evidently struck Arthur. At night, Violet, from her sofa, heard him
murmur to himself, 'My boy! my unselfish boy, what will you think of
your father?' and then stifle a groan.

The next afternoon, Johnnie, having as a preliminary inscribed his
brother's unwieldy name all over the fly-leaf, was proceeding most
happily to read the book aloud, lying on the hearth-rug, with his heels
in the air. He read his mamma into a slumber, his papa into a deep
reverie, which resulted in his dragging himself up from his chair, by
the help of the chimney-piece, and reaching pen and writing-case from
Violet's table.

'Oh! papa!' whispered Johnnie, in an injured tone, at not having been
asked to do the little service.

'I thought it would disturb mamma less,' returned Arthur, sinking back;
'but you may give me the ink. And now, my dear, go on to yourself.'

'Are you going to write, papa? That is being much better.'

'I am going to try to write to your uncle. Johnnie, supposing you lose
me, I look to your uncle and you for care of the little ones.'

Johnnie gave a great sigh, and looked at his father, but made no answer.
Papa's writing was a matter of curiosity, and he stood watching in
silence.

'You must not watch me, Johnnie,' said Arthur, presently, for whether
his son could read his writing or not, he could not bear his eyes upon
it. The boy had dropped into his place on the carpet in a moment.

I