he words, brought Mrs. McGregor to her feet in an
instant, and what a rush she made for the door! Gauze, spangles,
scissors, and spool flew in all directions and the children, deciding
that some unprecedented evil had befallen, stampeded after her.

Open-mouthed, they watched, while in the arms of the little old
gentleman she laughed, cried, and uttered broken nothings quite
unintelligible to anybody.

"Who ever would have thought to see you, Frederick!" gasped she at
last, as wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron she dragged her
visitor into the room. "Children, come here one by one and speak to
your Uncle James Frederick Dillingham. This is Carl, the oldest one--a
good boy as ever lived (if he is always tearing his clothes). The next
is Mary; she's going on thirteen and is quite a little housekeeper even
now. Timmie, who let you in, is nine. And here are Martin and Nell--the
mites! James Frederick is asleep but when you see him you'll see the
finest baby you ever set your two eyes on. Kiss your uncle, children.
You know it's him you have to thank for many, many things."

Slowly the children advanced, wonder (and if the truth must be told) no
small measure of chagrin in their crestfallen countenances.

Was this apparition the fairy prince of their imaginings--this little
gray man with his long coat and oilskin bundle? Why, he might be Mike
Carrigan, the butcher; or Davie Ryan, the proprietor of the fruit
stand, for anything his appearance denoted. Their dreams were in the
dust. Still, youth is hopeful and they did not quite let go the
expectation that when the long coat that disguised him had been removed
and the magic bundle opened Uncle Frederick Dillingham would issue
forth in a garb startling, resplendent, and more in accordance with
their mental pictures of him. But to their profound disappointment,
when the great coat was tossed aside, it concealed no ermine-robed
hero; nor was there crown or scepter in the bundle. Instead there stood
in their midst a very plain, kindly little man arrayed in a shiny suit
of blue serge that was almost shabby. The buttons, to be sure, had
anchors on them; but they were dim, lusterless old anchors that looked
as if they had been sunk in the depths of the sea until their golden
glory had been tarnished by the washings of a million waves.

Nell eyed him and at length began to cry.

"Policeman!" she whimpered, hiding her face in her mother's skirt.

"Hush, girlie! Don't be