ing touch to Betty's brown hair, as she stood by the piano,
fingering for the hundredth time the presents she had received that day.
Her dress of soft white wool suggested, like Lloyd's, the Yule-tide
season, for in the belt and shoulder-knots of dull green velvet were
caught clusters of mistletoe, the tiny waxen berries gleaming like
pearls.

"Everything is _so_ lovely!" she sighed, happily, picking up her camera
to admire it once more. It was her godmother's gift, and the thing she
had most longed to own.

She focussed it on Lloyd, who, in her scarlet dress, stood vividly
outlined by the firelight against the curtains. "I took three pictures
this morning while Rob was here, all snow scenes. The house, the locust
avenue, and a group of little darkies running after your grandfather,
calling out, 'Chris'mus gif', Colonel!' I think I'd better carry my
things all up to my room," she added, presently. "There'll be so many
people here soon, and so much moving around when the hunt begins, that
they'll be in the way."

"You'll need a wheelbarrow to take them in," answered Lloyd, turning
from the window to watch her gather them up. "You'd bettah call Walkah
to help you."

"Santa Claus certainly was good to me," answered Betty, picking up Mr.
Sherman's gift, a beautiful mother-of-pearl opera-glass. It was like the
one he had given Lloyd, except for the difference in monograms. She
rubbed it lovingly with her handkerchief, and laid it beside the camera
to be carried up-stairs. There were books from the old Colonel, an
ivory photograph-frame exquisitely carved from Lloyd. Dozens of little
articles from the girls at school, and remembrances from nearly every
friend in the Valley. There was more than her arms could hold, and,
bringing a large tray from the dining-room, she made two trips up and
down stairs with it before her treasures were all lodged safely in her
room.

Left alone for the first time that busy day, Lloyd stood a moment longer
peering out into the snowy twilight, and then crossed the room to the
table where her gifts were spread out. There had never been so many for
her since her days of dolls and dishes and woolly lambs. The
opera-glasses like Betty's were what she had wished for all year. The
purse her grandfather had slipped into the toe of her stocking was the
prettiest little affair of gray suede and silver she had ever seen. She
had thought of a dozen delightful ways to spend the gold eagle which it
held