be the cheapest
in existence; and she was a practical person, like her boy Newton.

Moreover, she loved John Henry with all her heart and soul, and thought
him one of the greatest geniuses in the world, and she simply could not
bear the idea that he should not have a fair chance to finish the
machine and try it.

Lastly, Christmas was coming; the girls she was educating talked of
nothing else, and counted the days, and sat up half the night on the
edges of each other's beds discussing the beautiful presents they were
sure to receive; and a great deal might be written about what they said,
but it has nothing to do with this story, except that their chatter
helped to fill the air with the Christmas spirit, and with thoughts of
giving as well as of receiving. Though they were rather spoiled
children, they were generous too, and they laid all sorts of little
traps in order to find out what their governess would like best from
each of them, for they were fond of her in their way.

Also, Munich is one of the castles which King Christmas still holds in
absolute sway and calls his own, and long before he is really awake
after his long rest he begins to stir and laugh in his sleep, and the
jolly colour creeps up and spreads over his old cheeks before he thinks
of opening his eyes, much less of getting up and putting on his crown.
And now that he was waking, Helen Overholt felt the old loving longing
for her dear ones rising to her womanly heart, and she planned little
plans for another and a happier year to come, and meanwhile she bought
two or three little gifts to send to the cottage in far Connecticut.

But when she had read about the Berlin professor and his motor and
thought of her own John Henry making bricks without straw and bearing up
bravely against disappointment, and still writing so cheerfully and
hopefully in spite of everything, she simply could not stand it another
day. As I have said, King Christmas turned over just before waking, and
he put out a big generous hand in his sleep and laid it on her heart.
Whenever he does that to anybody, man, woman, or child, a splendid
longing seizes them to give all they have to the one child, or woman, or
man that each loves best, or to the being of all others that is most in
need, or to help the work which seems to each of them the noblest and
the best, if they are grown up and are lonely.

This is what happened to Helen Overholt, in spite of her good sense and
all her