of the occasion, she
said smiling--

"I don't look much like a child, but I should like to try and feel like
one again if I can."

"Let us both look and feel so as much as possible. You like
masquerading; go make a little girl of yourself, while I turn boy, and
prepare for our merry making."

No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor had preserved
much of the boy in spite of his thirty years. His cheerfulness was so
infectious, that Sylvia already began to forget her gloom, and hurried
away to do her part. Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for
scrambles among the rocks, she improvised a pinafore, and braided her
long hair a la Morlena Kenwigs, with butterfly bows at the ends. When
she went down, she found her husband in garden jacket, collar turned
over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble, and jackknife in hand, seated on
the rug before a roaring fire, and a semicircle of apples, whittling and
whistling like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful
commendations, and Moor began his part by saying--

"Isn't this jolly? Now come and cuddle down here beside me, and see
which will keep it up the longest."

"What would Prue say? and who would recognize the elegant Mr. Moor in
this big boy? Putting dignity and broadcloth aside makes you look about
eighteen, and very charming I find you," said Sylvia, looking about
twelve herself, and also very charming.

"Here is a wooden fork for you to tend the roast with, while I see to
the corn laws and prepare a vegetable snowstorm. What will you have,
little girl, you look as if you wanted something?"

"I was only thinking that I should have a doll to match your knife. I
feel as if I should enjoy trotting a staring fright on my knee, and
singing Hush-a-by. But I fancy even your magic cannot produce such a
thing,--can it, my lad?"

"In exactly five minutes a lovely doll will appear, though such a thing
has not been seen in my bachelor establishment for years."

With which mysterious announcement Moor ran off, blundering over the
ottomans and slamming the doors as a true boy should. Sylvia pricked
chestnuts, and began to forget her bosom trouble as she wondered what
would appear with the impatient curiosity appropriate to the character
she had assumed. Presently her husband reappeared with much breeziness
of aspect, rain drops in his hair, and a squirming bundle in his arms.
Triumphantly unfolding many wraps, he displayed little Tilly in her
night-gow