her of putting them in water; and, if he was
really poor, and not a miser, as Jane said, he might not have a vase or
jug to put them in.

And now it was Christmas-time. Guy was home for the holidays, and that
was splendid. But, on the other hand, mother and father had had to go to
granny, who was ill. So there would be no real Christmas in the brown
house.

'But I'll tell you what,' said Phyllis; 'there's the Christmas-tree for
the poor children at the schools. Suppose we were to make some things
for that, and buy some, and go down and help decorate? Mother said we
might.'

Guy was rather clever with his fingers, and as we all like doing what we
can do really well, he did not make such a fuss over making things as
some boys do. He could make doll's furniture out of pins and wool, and
armchairs out of the breast-bones of geese; only there are so seldom
enough breast-bones of geese to make a complete set of furniture.

There was nearly a week to make things in, and long before its end the
schoolroom began to look like a bazaar. There were little boxes of
sweets covered with silver paper, and scrapbooks made of postcards
covered with red calico, and some little dolls that the girls dressed,
as well as all the things that Guy made.

'How ravishingly beautiful!' said Mabel, when the shiny, shimmery, real
Christmas-tree things bought at the shop were spread out with the
others.

The day before Christmas Eve the children were very happy indeed,
although they had had to be made thoroughly tidy before Jane would allow
them to go down to the school; and being thoroughly tidy, as you know,
often means a lot of soap in your eyes, and having your nails cleaned by
someone who does not know as well as you do where the nail leaves off
and the real you begins.

They went to the side-door of the school, and left the baskets and
bundles of pretty things in the porch and went in.

The big tree was there, but it was just plain fir-tree so far, nothing
Christmassy about it, except that it was planted in a tub.

'How do you do?' said Guy politely to the stout lady in a bonnet with
black beads and a violet feather; 'I'm so glad we're in time.'

'What for?' said the stout lady. 'The tree's not till to-morrow. Run
away, little boy.'

'Oh, Mrs. Philkins,' said Phyllis, 'he's not a little boy, he's Guy;
don't you remember him?'

'I remember him in petticoats,' said Mrs. Philkins: 'he's grown.
Good-afternoon.'

'Mother said,' said