f the heat. O! O! don't it
smell good?" she cried, as the savory odors of the Christmas cooking
stole out upon the air.

"What is it, Sweetie?" whispered Willie.

"Coffee," said Sweetie, "and turkeys, and jelly, perhaps."

"I wish I had some," sighed Freddy, "I'm so cold and hungry!"

"Poor little man! he must come and sit in Sweetie's lap; that will
make him warmer," said his sister, wrapping her shawl around him.

"Yes; that's nice," said the little fellow, hugging her tight.

Mr. Rogers, the owner of this fine house, had lost his wife and two
dear children within the year. He lived here alone, with his servants,
and was very desolate. When the children stopped under his window, he
was lying on a velvet sofa near it, and, lifting himself up, he peeped
out from behind the curtains just as Fred crept into his sister's
arms; and he heard all they said.

"When your ship comes in, Sweetie, will it have turkeys and jellies in
it?" said Willie, leaning against her.

"Yes, indeed," said Sweetie. "There will be turkeys almost as big as
Jennie, and a great deal fatter."

"But it's so long coming, Sweetie; you tell us every time it _will_
come, and it never _comes_ at all."

"O, no, Freddy. I don't ever say it _will_ come, but it's nice to
think what we would do if it should come--isn't it?"

"We'd buy a great white house, like this--wouldn't we, Sweetie?"

"No, Willie. I'd rather buy that nice little store over by the church,
that's been shut up so long, and has FOR SALE on the door. I'd furnish
it all nice, and fill the shelves with beautiful goods, and trimmings
for ladies' dresses, and lovely toys. It shows so far that everybody
would be sure to buy their Christmas things there. It's just the
dearest little place, with two cosy rooms back of the shop, and three
overhead; and I'd put flour and sugar, and tea and coffee, and all
sorts of goodies, in the kitchen cupboard, and new clothes for all of
us in the closets up stairs. Then I'd kindle a fire, and light the
lamps, and lock the door, and go back to the dreary old garret once
more--poor mother would be sitting there, sad and sober, as she
always is now, and I would say to her, 'Come, mother, before you light
the candle, Jennie and I want you to go with us, and look at the
lovely Christmas gifts in the shop windows.' Then she'd say,
sorrowfully, 'I don't want to see them, dear; I can't buy any of them
for you, and I don't want to look at them.' But I'd tease h