ght to start,--

"Lighting the candles of Christmas joy,
With a spark from the Yule log's fire."

But there was no time for making poetry, with so many voices calling
"Merry Christmas," and so many outstretched hands grasping hers. In
another instant the house seemed filled to overflowing, and the dim old
mirrors were flashing back from every side one of the gayest scenes the
hospitable old mansion had ever known.

The hunt began almost immediately. As soon as Elise had emptied the
stocking of its contents, up-stairs and down-stairs and in my lady's
chamber went old and young at the bidding of the rhymes.

"I feel like a 'goosey gander,' sure enough," said Allison presently.
"For I've been all over the house, and there's no place left to wander.
Where would you go if you had this card?"

She thrust hers out toward Gay, who read:

"Standing with reluctant feet
Where Brooks and Little Rivers meet."

Gay puzzled over it a moment, and then suggested that she try the
library. "I have," answered Allison. "Keith found his package in there,
behind the picture of a Holland windmill and canal, but there is
nothing else in the room that suggests water that I have been able to
find."

"Who wrote 'Little Rivers'?"

Allison stood thinking a moment, and then cried out: "Well, of course!
Why didn't I think to look among the books?" Flying down-stairs, she
began glancing along the library shelves until she found the book she
sought and Brooks's sermons standing side by side. Between them was
wedged a thin package which proved to contain a picture which she had
long wanted, a photograph of Murillo's painting of the Madonna.

To Betty's surprise the Christmas stocking held a card for her. She had
supposed her part of the game would be only making the rhymes and
helping to hide the gifts. There was no rhyme on her card, simply the
statement, "Some little men are keeping it for you."

Remembering Allison's experience, she ran up-stairs to Lloyd's room,
where in a low bookcase were all the juvenile stories that her childhood
had held dear. A set of Miss Alcott's books stood first, and, taking out
the well-thumbed copy of "Little Men," she shook it gently, fluttering
the leaves, and turning it upside down. But the volume held nothing
except a four-leaf clover, which Lloyd had left there to mark the place
one summer day. Betty turned away, as puzzled as any of the others whom
she had help