is lap. A moment later, the two heads, the old and the
young, bent over the picture-laden pages.

"Look, daddy." John pointed to a locomotive with pedals and a seated cab
for a youthful engineer. "I saw one, once. All red and shiny, with a
black smokestack. And the bell really rings."

"But don't you think that's too much money for a toy?"

The boy nodded reluctantly. "Still, it's such lots of fun to just _wish_
for things, even though you know you can't have them."

The strong arms tightened about him tenderly for a moment. As they
relaxed, John turned the leaves back rapidly.

"Let's begin at the very beginning," he explained, then rapped the first
page petulantly. "Nothing but dolls and dolls and more dolls," as a
procession of things dear to the feminine heart passed by; "and doll
bathtubs and dishes and other sissy things." He bent forward suddenly.

"That's better. A 'lectric railroad. Let's take your pencil." He marked
an irregular cross beside the illustration. "And here come the sleds.
Lots of them aren't so very 'spensive. And banks," he smiled. "I guess
mine's big enough, isn't it, daddy?"

Mr. Fletcher joined in the smile. Indeed until he had seen that porker
safe on his son's bureau, he had no idea that so large a china animal
existed. The boy broke in on his thoughts excitedly.

"Punch and Judys!" His memory swept back to the raftered hall and
Professor O'Reilley's performance. "They're such fun, and they don't
cost very much. If I had one, I wouldn't spend any money on those shows,
either."

His father chuckled at the bit of juvenile diplomacy. "You'd better make
out your Christmas list for us before that pencil gets worn out making
crosses, son."

He slid from the paternal knee and was off to the library in a trice.
Mrs. Fletcher had overheard the finish of the conversation and smiled in
on him before she joined her husband in reading the evening paper.
Minutes passed.

"Most finished, son?" called Mr. Fletcher. "It's nearly bedtime, you
know."

A grunt was the only response.

"Better add a few things you'll need around the flat when you and Louise
are married!"

"John!" Mrs. Fletcher rattled her newspaper disapprovingly. "Do stop
teasing that boy."

A few moments later, her son appeared in the doorway, yawning sleepily.

"It isn't ready yet," he said. "I'm going to bed now."

Late the following evening, Mrs. Fletcher opened her son's door to see
if he slept soundly, and a scrap of