ing up her meals.

"If ye please, ma'am," said the worthy maid-of-all-work, not stopping
to knock at the door, "if ye please, ma'am, ye'd better come
down-stairs; the children are nigh about crazy waiting for ye;" and
the sunshine of her face illuminated the long room after she had
retreated down the stairway.

"They can't feel very bad," said Mrs. Mulford, as she slowly turned
from her room. "It seems to me I never heard them laugh so heartily.
Oh, to be a child again!" And she sighed heavily.

As she entered the sitting-room, what a sight met her eyes! There were
wreaths of green over her portrait and papa's; a narrow border running
round the mantel; and festoons falling in every direction.

"Come, mother," said Arthur, "you first; Bridget can hardly wait, and
our breakfast won't be worth eating."

"Oh, no," said the mother, "Maud should have the first chance; and the
impatient child eagerly availed herself of the privilege."

It was astonishing what an amount of goodies rolled out of that
stocking, and after they were laid aside there were one or two parcels
to be opened. There was a nice pair of warm gloves, just what she
wanted to use in drawing the sled, or making snow-balls; a new doll,
and a book full of pictures. Minnie's stocking was quite as
bountifully stocked, and every new surprise seemed to enkindle their
mirth and enthusiasm.

Arthur had filled his own stockings with all sorts of odds and ends,
on purpose to increase the fun and hilarity, and pretended to be
surprised that Santa Claus patronized second-hand shops. Bridget sat
down with the children to unload her collection of treasures, and even
Mrs. Mulford was forced to laugh heartily at her comical remarks,
especially when she drew out a potato, which was labeled, "The last of
the Murphys!" "May they always be first in the field!" said Bridget.

When Mrs. Mulford was finally induced to examine the contents of her
own stocking, the children, with Bridget, who was only an older child,
gathered around, and watched anxiously the proceedings.

There were a pair of nice brackets hanging outside, which Arthur had
cut with a penknife; and as she took up each article that had been
wrought by loving little fingers, the worsted pulse-warmers, the
pretty mats and tidies, she felt that it was indeed possible for love
to build upon the old ruins a beautiful palace for the heart to dwell
in.

"Forgive me, my dear children!" she exclaimed, embracing them