ith all the decision of which
she was capable to keep her high-pitched, middle-aged voice in
order--"'fore you get to bed I'm most forgettin' what I was to ask
you. I s'pose you'll laugh, but Guy--he wrote me partic'lar he wanted
you and his father to"--Marietta's rather stern, thin face took on a
curious expression--"to hang up your stockin's."

Mrs. Fernald paused in the door-way of the bedroom opening from the
sitting-room downstairs. She looked back at Marietta with her gentle
smile.

"Guy wrote that?" she asked. "Then--it almost looks as if he might be
coming himself, doesn't it, Marietta?"

"Well, I don't know's I'd really expect him," Marietta replied,
turning her face away and busying herself about the hearth. "I guess
what he meant was more in the way of a surprise for a Christmas
present--something that'll go into a stockin', maybe."

"It's rather odd he should have written you to ask me," mused Mrs.
Fernald, as she looked out the stockings.

Marietta considered rapidly. "Well, I s'pose he intended for me to get
'em on the sly without mentionin' it to you, an' put in what he sent,
but I sort of guessed you might like to fall in with his idee by
hangin' 'em up yourself, here by the chimbley, where the children all
used to do it. Here's the nails, same as they always was."

Mrs. Fernald found the stockings, and touched her husband on the
shoulder, as he sat unlacing his shoes. "Father, Guy wrote he wanted
us to hang up our stockings," she said, raising her voice a little and
speaking very distinctly. The elderly man beside her looked up,
smiling.

"Well, well," he said, "anything to please the boy. It doesn't seem
more than a year since he was a little fellow hanging up his own
stocking, does it, mother?"

The stockings were hung in silence. They looked thin and lonely as
they dangled beside the dying fire. Marietta hastened to make them
less lonely. "Well," she said, in a shame-faced way, "the silly boy
said I was to hang mine, too. Goodness knows what he'll find to put
into it that'll fit, 'less it's a poker."

They smiled kindly at her, wished her good night, and went back into
their own room. The little episode had aroused no suspicions. It was
very like Guy's affectionate boyishness.

"I presume he'll be down," said Mrs. Fernald, as she limped quietly
about the room, making ready for bed. "Don't you remember how he
surprised us last year? I'm sorry the others can't come. Of course, I
sent them