n
my study table, and deliver those that belong to the village. You know
where to find the list. Be sure to tick the names off. And don't go
farther down the road than Marriott's farm; it's getting dark."

Gwen cheered visibly. She was always glad to do something for Father,
if it were only distributing Parish Magazines, so she strode off with
a swinging step, humming the carol that the school children had been
practising with Winnie that afternoon.

"Show us, dear Christ-Child, Thy Christmas light,
Teach us the song of the Angels bright,
And the love of the Mother blest.
And help us this Christmas to learn of Thee
All we should do, and all we should be,
And how we can please Thee best."

Fortunately the Gascoynes were a forgiving family, and when they all
met at tea-time nobody seemed to remember Gwen's ill humour. The
evening was a busy one, for there were holly and ivy to be put up in
the Parsonage now the church was finished, and the usual mirth over a
bough of mistletoe which old Mr. Hodson, who owned the big farm by the
mill, always cut off every year from an apple tree in his orchard and
brought to them with his own hands. Gwen forgot her troubles and
romped with the rest, accepting Martin's sticky kisses in the spirit
in which they were intended. The Gascoynes did not hang up their
stockings, but laid their presents on the breakfast-table, so that
they could have the gratification of opening all their parcels
together. It was a point of honour not to take the tiniest peep inside
even the most tempting-looking package until the whole family was
assembled. Gwen had tried to make up for the poverty of her offerings
by the warmth of the greetings she wrote outside, but she did not
feel proud of her collection as she carried it downstairs. She was the
last, so she hastily made her distribution, and turned to her own
plate. She had been well remembered: a book from Father; a nightdress
case, beautifully embroidered, from Beatrice; a new purse from Winnie;
a big bottle of scent from dear little Lesbia, who to buy it must
certainly have gone without the blue-handled penknife she had coveted
so much in Bayne's window; some pencils from Giles and Basil; and a
piece of indiarubber from Martin, who had compassed seven presents on
a capital of eightpence-halfpenny. Gwen looked rather anxiously as the
others opened the packets she had addressed to them; but whatever they
thought, they all had the