tily, and leads the way out of the room and to the scene of her last night's disaster. The Christmas-tree is standing in its dark-green glory---a glory which is rapidly changing its character. It is exchanging its own sober and monotonous decorations, its sombre, weighty cones for a world of frivolous little flags, little pink candles, a gay variety of little fripperies. Many busy hands have been at work upon it since first the slow winter dawn stole in, and now it is groaning beneath a burden of unnatural products under which its grave boughs droop. Upon its solemn forest head a tinselly doll stands pirouetting on one leg. About the room lie hoards of stores in heaps: boxes overbrimming with penny- trumpets, little tin men on little horses, pop-guns, whips, bon-bons---all the engines in fact that are to diffuse ear- piercing noises and widespread indigestions through a hundred happy homes to-morrow. For the moment, however, the tree is alone. Of all the busy hands that have been bedizening it, none are to be
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