the
surroundings. A two-franc tree, had Grand'mere possessed one, would have
been Brobdignagian and pretentious.

[Illustration: Adoration]

A donor who is handicapped by the knowledge that the gifts he selects
must within a few weeks be destroyed by fire, is rarely lavish in his
outlay. Yet our presents, wrapped in white paper and tied with blue
ribbons, when arranged round the flower-pot made a wonderful show, There
were mounted Boers who, when you pressed the ball at the end of the
air-tube, galloped in a wobbly, uncertain fashion. The invalids had good
fun later trying races with them, and the Boy professed to find that his
Boer gained an accelerated speed when he whispered "Bobs" to him. There
were tales of adventure and flasks of eau-de-Cologne and smart virile
pocket-books, one red morocco, the other blue. We regretted the
pocket-books; but their possession made the recipients who, boylike,
took no heed for the cleansing fires of the morrow, feel grown-up at
once. And they yearned for the advent of the first day of the year, that
they might begin writing in their new diaries. For the Sister there was
a miniature gold consecrated medal. It was a small tribute of our
esteem, but one that pleased the devout recipient.

[Illustration: Thankfulness]

Suspended among the purely ornamental trinkets of the tree hung tiny net
bags of crystallised violets and many large chocolates rolled up in
silver paper. The boys, who had subsisted for several days on nothing
more exciting than boiled milk, openly rejoiced when they caught sight
of the sweets. But to her patients' disgust, the Soeur, who had a pretty
wit of her own, promptly frustrated their intentions by counting the
dainties.

"I count the chocolates. They are good boys, wise boys, honest boys, and
I have every confidence in them, but--I count the chocolates!" said the
Soeur.

[Illustration: One of the Devout]

As we passed back along the Rue de la Paroisse, worshippers were
flocking in and out of Notre Dame, running the gauntlet of the unsavoury
beggars who, loudly importunate, thronged the portals. Before the quiet
nook wherein, under a gold-bestarred canopy, was the tableau of the
Infant Jesus in the stable, little children stood in wide-eyed
adoration, and older people gazed with mute devotion.

Some might deem the little spectacle theatrical, and there was a slight
irrelevance in the pot-plants that were grouped along the foreground,
but none could fa