t I don't. If I did, Jimmie
would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It
isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If
he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must
hold him up to it."

She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude
toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and
other people don't. So I've got to prove it."

* * * * *

It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a
change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the
enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he
had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy
enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp,
burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were
a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no
question of his adoration.

After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of
the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles.
There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably
illustrated _Mother Goose_.

"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he
handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it."

We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the
bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged
jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic
sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless
search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his
horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended
rosy cheeks.

"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and
hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be
children in this old house."

I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many
gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a
wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade
with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of
rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball
on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the
things I wanted were drums and horns and candy c