uard me as though I were another Wilhelmina.

Was ever Christmas day so wonderful! Our tree is a real cedar of
Lebanon, uprooted by our beloved Indians and decorated with their
handiwork. Last eve we romped and sang and played tricks upon each other
until midnight, when we saucily hung up the biggest stockings and
sneaked off to bed to leave our Santa Claus with his labors. It must
have taken him hours for I slept for ages when I finally heard him
getting ready for bed. I slipped into my kimono and tried to crawl down
stairs and take a peep, but he heard me and would not countenance any
cheating so I snuggled up again and went to sleep, but like children, we
were all up at daybreak. For days and days Carlton has been going on
clandestine shopping tours to the meccas around us and has kept all
purchases locked and guarded. He can't bear the thought of grown-ups not
loving and believing in Santa.

Aside from all the valuable and exquisite things that each received, the
gift that proved Carlton's feeling toward me,--if I may insult that
feeling by even suggesting the necessity of a proof--was a tiny silk
stocking, hung quite at the end of the mantel shelf, all alone as though
it needed no protection, and filled with--you would never guess in a
thousand years, so I shan't keep you suspended in mid air--fifty
thousand dollars in U. S. bonds to start a bank account for the little
visitor that is to come. Every night before we sleep, we talk to our
baby, we pray to our baby, we worship our baby. Only beautiful thoughts
come to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands,--surely God
sends babies for other reasons than to propagate the species--we are
grown entirely unselfish; we are filled with kindly sympathies and
affection, and our energies and aims reach to Heaven.

A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filled
with the most delicate little garments that a human hand could create.
Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we passed
Printemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits--twenty years
ago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then--but on the
threshold of womanly emotions.

From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream is
a fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before it
froze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun's
rays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow ma