"All of 'em?" queried Maud, feebly.

"You don't s'pose I'd keep any back?"

Maud stood staring. It was beyond her little philosophy.

Earl was passing on when a thought struck him.

"Say, Maud," he cried, eagerly, "haven't you something you can put in?
Girls' things might please her better, you know. Some of mine
are--rather queer, I'm afraid."

"What have you got?" demanded Maud.

"Well, some of the things are well enough. There's a lot of candy and
oranges and figs and books; there's one by Jules Verne I guess she'll
like; but there's a great big jack-knife, and--a brown velvet bicycle
suit?"

"Why, Earl Munroe! what could she do with a bicycle suit?"

"I thought, maybe, she could rip the seams to 'em, an' sew 'em some way,
an' get a basque cut, or something. Don't you s'pose she could?" Earl
asked, anxiously.

"I don't know; her mother could tell," said Maud.

"Well, I'll hang it on, anyhow. Maud, haven't you anything to give her?"

"I--don't know."

Earl eyed her sharply. "Isn't that muff new?"

"Yes."

"And that ring?"

Maud nodded. "She'd be delighted with 'em. Oh, Maud, put 'em in!"

Maud looked at him. Her pretty mouth quivered a little; some tears
twinkled in her blue eyes.

"I don't believe my mother would let me," faltered she. "You--come with
me, and I'll ask her."

"All right," said Earl, with a tug at his sled-rope.

He waited with his load in front of Maud's house until she came forth
radiant, lugging a big basket. She had her last winter's red cashmere
dress, a hood, some mittens, cake and biscuit, and nice slices of cold
meat.

"Mother said these would be much more _suitable_ for her," said Maud,
with a funny little imitation of her mother's manner.

Over across the street another girl stood at the gate, waiting for news.

"Have they found her?" she cried. "Where are you going with all those
things?"

Somehow, Earl's generous, romantic impulse spread like an epidemic. This
little girl soon came flying out with her contribution; then there were
more--quite a little procession filed finally down the road to Jenny
Brown's house.

The terrible possibilities of the case never occurred to them. The idea
never entered their heads that little, innocent, trustful Jenny might
never come home to see that Christmas-tree which they set up in her poor
home.

It was with no surprise whatever that they saw, about noon, Mr. Munroe's
sleigh, containing Jenny and her mother and Mrs. Mun