Denbighshire Free Press

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u r. RMNTS RESBIiVRr.] THE vOTOIt CAIt OF OAOTA CLAUS.' By CEO. P. STMS, Aui!fT or "Tho Dagonot Ballad?." •* RojrUcr. and Vagabonds." "Titree i'rar.s lialLs." Memoirs of Mary Jane," &c.. Time: Five o'clock on the afternoon of December 24th. The street lamps shewins little patehes of spectral light here and there in the thick, white haze that had settled down upon London. The streets themselves almost deserted, except for a few belated people making their way to the railwav stations en route for the Christmas home- going. All day long the trains that ran shrieking 1 out of the great termini had been packed with men, women, and children bound for the provincial towns and the old folks at home." "A real old-fashioned ^uristma: That was what the middle-aged people said to each other as they looked at" the yvhite landscape in the country, the snow-covered roofs, and the snow-encrusted railincs in town. & The snoyv had fallen heavily- the previous night and a sharp frost had hardened and set it. A real old-fashioned Christmas, and glorious weather for the Yoml. the hale and hearty, the well-housed and the warmly clad. But in the great city there were thousands who looked upon the snoyv dear to the artist and the story-teller not with gladness but with dismay. For them physical suffering yvas add,1^ to the burthen of the pilgrimage, the struggle "or life was intensified by i!> irr-n grin in which Ila(] locked th" i,,(!. ° 1 A young girl of nineteen, neallv out t-or> warmly clad. pas> -d sh/w-y—almost fc.-bly over Waterloo Bridge. I-iv was a c;i" actress, who had vailed all day at tin' agent's i" die Strand, hoping against hope that even at the eleventh hour her chance might come. There is nothing more prthelic than the ¡¡it). crowd in a thcntrirrfl agent's office on the last few days before the pre at Christmas •festival. All the pnetonmncs are then in the s !Ja«t singe of rehear'-al. all the parts, big and i little, have been filled, and the one hope 's that accident, illness, or an unexpected hap- pening may yet. even at the hour, give a chaner. to one or two of the little de- spairing crowd. For despair is in their hearts, though there Î" no sign of it upon their faces. The chil- dren of Thespis will laugh and chatter gaily in each other's presence though their pockets are empty and their hearts are sicik with hope deferred. When the agent, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way. says. "Nothing for you to-day: my dear." as he has perhaps said it day after day for a fortnight, they will nod pleasantly to their comrades who still linger in the yvaifring-room and go down the stairs yvith a smile. It is only when they have left the Strand and the little crowd of passing pro- fessionals for which that thoroughfare of theatres is famous that the smile will fade, and the agony of despair will write it., If large upon the mobile features, moist eyes, and trembling lips. Jenny Marloyve knew. as she made her way home to her lodgings across Waterloo Bridge, that her last hope of a Citi-istina S* K,Ijgigenieiit was gone. And she wanted it so badly. All the money she had earned in her last engagement she had sent home. She had only kept enough to pay for her board and lodging for the few yveeks she thought she might be out before the pantomime season put her in w (IF," And now all chance of that was gone. All the Christmas pantomimes were cast. and there was no hope anywhere. Shp could see nothing likely to come her way until the managers began to get their companies to- gether for the spring touring. Everywhere, as she made her way home, the note of Christmas was in the air. The shops were gaily deenvatcd. and filled with good things and Christmas gifts. The people who hurried past her, bound for home, were many of them carrying Christmas fare and Christmas parcels. And she. almost penniless, was making her way to a lonely lodging, haunted by the thought that she yvould soon be unable to fin-I ,veii the modest rent for it. On tins, tne sadaest Christmas she had ever knoyvn, she thought of the happy ones she had known as a child. Then her father was a well-to-do country gmtleman, and she and her sister Milly had been as happy as the day was long. and their every childish wish had been gratified. Idolised by their father I and mother, they had never known a care. Then when she was seventeen, and Milly was a year older, disaster had suddenly come up- on them. Their father's fortune was svrept away toy the failure of a firm of solicitors, whose de- falcation= brought hundreds of families to ruin. All that was left was a small income of their mother's which would cease at her death. It became necessary for the girls to earn money. Both had good voices, and the stage was suggested to them by their singing- master. And so Jenny and Milly Mariowe. having obtained an introduction to a uiana- ger v.ho ran musical comedy. came to Lon- don, and. after some delay, secured engage- ments in the chorus at a salary of thirty-five shillings a week. The reverse of fortune caused a serious breakdown in Mr. Marlowe's Yiealth, and his illness pttt a strain upon his wife's resources. Things had become very bad with them, and the girls had been sending every week the little they could spare, but, by a pious fraud, leading their parents to believe that they were doing v.ell enough not to feel the loss of it. Mrs. Marlowe had taken the money for her husband's sake. Hoping to soften the blow 10 him she had not let him know how strained their resources really were, and so thev still lived in a pretty little house in Berkshire, not far from the old home. the Grange, at Brakeley. Jenny Marlowe thought of all these things as she shivered in the bitter cold of a real old-fashioned Christmas, and went wearily on her way to a dull street of dingy houses, most of which were let out in apartments to the professionals who found it a convenient quarter from a business point of view. She had hoped so much from the panto- mime engagement. Salaries were higher. an'I she had calculated on at least a small part. which would be worth three pounds a yvee.k. She wanted more money badly, for there a desperate pinch at home. and her mother's last letter had been a sad one. Amid all the gloom there was only one ray of light. Milly had one away yvith a touring company, had written that they were going on through Christmas." But- she was still only a small part lady," and out of her two pounds a week slv had to pay for her lodg- ings and tier board, which did not leave her much of a balance to send Junee. Milly was always the light-hearted member of the unfortunate little family. Jennv and her mother had tacitly agreed not to impart- all their troubles to her. The younger girl seemed to Mrs. Marlowe more in sympathy with sorroyv. Light-hearted as she yvn?. Milly Marlowe was good-hearted, and they knoyv she yvould part with her last farthing if they asked her fU. But there is ahvavs one in a family v.ho is the chosen recipient of the family troubles, lud so Mrs. Marlowe never yvroto to Milly as dio did to Jenny. Jennv Marlowe let- herself in with her j latchkey and yvent upstairs to her combined room." She was ;v-!< nislied whea she opened tho ooor to fi:-d the gas on and a bright fire 1 burning. She was still ieer.-> astonished yvhen she I saw the little tali11 1;r1 for tea with two tea- eun:: oa if 1; 1 vapet t he landladv's

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"unoss your -oart," raturned the conductor^ ho had littlo ones of his own, "you'd best m back to your pa and ma. ?( "I'm going to find my father," answered tlarjory, with dignity. "Hight YOII are. then. J'H stand you a ride," and, lifting her up, the man placed the child in a corner of the nearly empty omnibus. A moment, or two latei-, it began to fill up, and the conductor had little time to question his young guest; but asking if it were the Park she wished to Wi-eacil, he received an eager affirmative. "Yes, that's the name of the place. 1 remember now," Mar j cry exclaimed. we only go to Piccadilly Circus," explained the man, "but I'll put you down and point you the way on. That's the best I can promise, missy. The child thanked him cordially, and said that would do nicely, just as Littlo Mother said when Mary Jane announced that there was no fresh milk for the tea, and woul4 she have condensed. Marjory looked with great, starry eyes at the face of every man who got into the omnibus now, but she was sure that her father was not among them. It was just as the conductor was hel ping her off the high step, however, that she saw in the distance a perfectly ideal father. He was young,, tall, well-dressed, with a fine figure and a fine face. If nurse could see him, Marjory told herself hurriedly, she would surely say that he was as "handsome as a fairy prince." The blood sang in the little girl's ears. Mary Jane had warned her that one knew one's father by the "feclin' one 'ad in one's 'eart," the instant one clapped eyes upon him, and Marjory had a very strange feeling now, so strange that she cried to the con- ductor, "Oh, put me down. There's my father. I must catch him or he'll be gone." Her big friend swung her on to the pave- ment, and waiting only long enough for a polite but breathless "Thank you very much," the child began to thread her way through the Christmas Eve crowd in Picon-dill v. Once or twice she thought that, she had lost the tall figure for which she seatched, but she found it, again at last, running very fast wr'088 the street in pursuit, she escaped by h miracle from being run over. A squeak of alarm from an elderly I i),l who had witnessed the miracle caused the young man to turn his head, slackening his pace for an instant. That instant was enough for Marjory. "Oh, do wait for me, please she cried, her eyes appealing to his and, with a puzzled look ou his brown face, he obeyed. Five seconds Inter a tinv hand was slipped into his. ( "Oh, I'm so glad! the little girl panted. "When I saw you cross the street, I thought I was never going to catch you up. "I'm afraid you came very near being run over, my little one," said the brown young man, kindly. "You shouldn't be out in the street alone, I'm sure but now you are here, what can I do for you ? Were you on the ship with me, I wonder ? "There I knew it would be you, exclaimed Marjory, rapturously. "You were on a ship, and you were lost at sea, but we've found each other, because it's Christmas Eve. Isn't it wonderful ? The handsome, brown face grew more puzzicu tnan over, Out the man was observing the child with a kind of wistful interest. There was something in her eyes and voice which caught at his heart. "I wasn't lost at sea, or I shouldn't bo here, you said he. "I'm afraid we're playing at cross purposes. When did we know cach other ? "Oh, ever so long ago, when I was a baby," responded Marjory. "Dear me, and you've remembered all this t; me "It was the feeling I had in my heart, just as Alary Jane said, that told me it was you," replied the little girl. "I'm so thankfu1 I've found you, and so will mother hø Nurse that's the nurse I had long ago before we were poor, and mother had to be a governess—nurse told someone you weren't very good to Little Mother, but now 1 see you I'm sure she must have been mistaken. You've got such kind eyes, and you're just as handsome as she said you were. Little Mother's so sweet and beautiful, you couldn't have been unkind to her, I know. And now that you've come back, you'll take care of us, won't you, and mother won't have to work all da,y ? "By Jove!" exclaimed the young man; and then he laughed, rather an odd laugh. But Marjory only thought that he was happy, But Marjory only thought that he was happy, because people always do laugh when they are happy. "Will you come back home with me now ? she asked. "Mother won't bo in till four, bift I would try to entertain you. Wo don't live in a pretty house any more, like we used, but it seems pretty to me in our room when Little Mother's at home, because she's so lovely, you know. Even Mary Jane says she never saw anyone so beautiful as my mother. Won't you be glad to see her a,,aiii ? "Let us go into a tea-shop together before 1 take you home," said the young man, speaking gravely now. "You shall have some milk and cakes, or whatever you like, and then we can talk. There's plenty of time before four o;cloc-k. See, here is a place." "Oh, what pretty pink cakes exeliiiiied Marjory, whose eyes were on a level with the big, plate-glass window. "It will be like having Christmas after all." "Weren't you expecting to have a Christ- ii,fts a,.slie(f the young man, as he guides his small companion into the tea-shop, ant, lifted her into a chair by a little table near the window. "No. Mother asked me if I would mind if I Santa Claus didn't come to me this year; and it was when I was telling Mary jane, that she began talking to me about lost fathers, and how they sometimes got found on Christmas Eve. Oh, it is just like the best fairy story I ever heard "It is rather like a fairy story," the miraculously acquired parent admitted; so like one that it may be 1 am a fairy father, and will vanish again by-and-bye." "Please don't vanish if you can help it," Marjqry pleaded. "Mother and I will be so sad if you do. "Fairy fathers can't help vanishing, that's the worst ol it. They are obliged to do so, but they are usually granted several hours I with the children who have summoned them from fairyland, before they have to go. Now, supposing I should turn out to be only a fairy father, in spite of myself, what would you like best to have me do for you while we were allowed to be together ? Poor Marjory's little face had lost its bril- liant colour, and the light had died out of her eyes. "I have got so fond of you already," she said, "I don't see how I can b»r to let you go. "Let its not think of thai, the young man replied. "One never knows what may happen. l.et us think about the prwsent. Shall you and 1 go shopping, and Vuy a lot of nice 1 tilings for a real Christmas f What do you want most in the world ? .i. doll as big as j yourself "Oh! exclaimed the claiM, dazzled mfcv forgetting for a moment tbf pain of disap- pointment, "I've often drawnt about having a hig doll like that; it woaid be wonderful. But perhaps poor dear Erie would be un- happy if 1 had one. Evi echoed the new father, straighten- ing himself, with a slight start. "Who is Evie ? ° "My doll," replied Marjory. "She's only a tiny doll, but she's all I've got, and we've been very fond of each other for years. 1 hat's the reason I named her Evelyn, after Little Mother; and I call her Evie for short." ):our niother",s ntme is Evelyn j "Why, yes had you forgotten that ? For a moment the brown man was silent. Then he said slowly: "Being lost confuses one's mind about things in the past. Toll, me your mother's whole name, little one." "Evelyn Wilson Grenville. "Good Heavens You arc her child "Of course," returned Marjory. Why do you look so You're not ill, are you ? Your lips have got so white. Do drillk your tea. It will make you better. It always docs mother, when she comes home tired out, with a bad headache. Oh, somehow you seem all changed. I haven't don-e,anything naughty to ricvc YOU. iuve. I ? "No, no—dear littlo one," he answered and though there was a curious break in his voice, Marjory was reassured by its tender- ness. "You have done nothing naughty. On I the contrary, J think you are the best and most wonderful little girl 1 ever heard of. \ou are so good that perhaps if you should want me very much not to vanish, and if you could persuade your mother to want me, tou- I might be allowed to stay in your life." "Oh, mother will want you very miteh, just as much as I do, when she sees you," pro- tested the child. I wish I ,were sure. Still, it does seem as if something were to come of this. I was on my way to take one look at the house where 1 thought she p.¡!1 list one look, on my llrt, tmy in England after all these years—and her child ran after me and claimed me. Therc is more in it than chance." "It's Christmas Eve, you know," Marjory reminded him. "The anniversary of the day six years ago, when she scht me away from her," be murmured, and Marjory was not sure whether she heard aright. Besides, "anniversary" was a. very big word, and she did not quite understand it. Long ago she had finished drinking the milk and eating the pink cakes which had been ordered for her. The Fairy Father had not eaten his cakes, nor had he taken her advice about the tea; nevertheless, he looked at his watch, and, appearing suddenly impatient, proposed that they should go and begin the J Christmas shopping. "It .is almost tNN-0 o'clock," he said, "and wo have the doll and quantities of other things to buy before the time when I am to take you home to your mother." "Do you know," Marjory began, earnestly, "I would rather we bought presents for Little Mother than have the doll for when she has any money she always gets some- thing for me, and never for herself. Wouldn't it be nice to buy her a new dress and hat —oh, and a coat, too, for Mary Jane says she must be shivery cold in her thin jacket.) And I wish I knew what kind of boots she likes, for she's got patches on the toes of hers. 1 'spdse you don't remember ? "1 remember she has the prettiest foot in the world," answered the brown man, dreamily. Then, waking up, he said that he would not dare choose dresses and hats for a lady, but he would buy something else, and Marjory must help him coax her mother to accept it. Five minutes later the chiid was driving in a hansom cab, for the first time within her memory. They turned off Piccadilly into Bond-street, and there they stopped before a shop window blazing with jewels such as Marjory had never seen. It was part of the fairy story in which she was living, to sit perched on a high chair, selecting the prettiest in a trayful of diamond rings, and then to histoid the beautiful thing was for the Little Mother—if she would have it. "If she will," said the brown man, "the Diamond Fairy will let me stay with you always. if she won't,. then I shall have to vanish immediately." This made Marjory very thoughtful, for the new father seemed so doubtful of the ring's acceptance that she became doubtful too because he was grown up, and must know a great deal more about everything than she did. N tile i i^ven tne joy or visiting several magnificent shops, and buying more dolls and wonderful toys and sweets than had ever figured in her wildest dreams, could not (tuit restore the child's serenity; for the kinder the new father was, the more terrible grew the thought of losing him. At last the four-wheeled cab, for which they had been obliged to change the hansom, was overcrowded with their purchases, the last of these being a great hunch of fragrant pink roses. There was holly, too, in large branches, and mistletoe, and plenty of Parma violet:i. An(I ttici-(t witi-; i,.iiiltil-.ttLire tree, ready decorated with coloured candles and sparkling ornaments, while at the top was a little wax Christ-child fast asleep in a manger. it was wonderful how much they liau contrived to accomplish in a short time, fru- it was only half-past three when they arrive' at the dull little lodging-house in the dull little Bloomsbury-street, of which Marjory luckily remembered the name. The number of the house she had not been able to tell, but she knew that it had red blinds, and that there were flower-pots in their own sitting- 10 room window, up on the top floor. Mary Jane had had no idea all these hours that Marjory was not safely upstairs, playing with faded, rag-doll Evie; and when she answered the door, to see the child standing on the steps, a tall young man beside her, and a cab running over with toys in the background, she all but fainted. Perhaps she would have collapsed completely, had not Marjory's excited explanations produced a tonic effect. "This is my lost father, Mary Jane," sle announced "and father, this is Mary Jane. If it hadn't been for what she told me about Christmas Eve, I would never have; found y< u. And oil, Mary Jane, we've brought you two Christmas presents a ptii, of earrings and some handkerchiefs. 1 hope you'll like them. And now we're going up- stairs to make everything pretty before mother comes home..She will bo surprised." Mary Jane had it, sceptical mind, and whether or not to believe in the father idea she did not know, but she beiieved in the earrings and handkerchiefs when she saw them, and she forgot how tired her legs were in the delight of running up and downstairs with toys and flowers. In half-an-hour a marVellous change had been wrought in the tiny sitting-room. (.) i) o noticed only the roscli and holly, the new books, the fancy boxes of sweets, the ribbon- decked baskets of crystallised fruits, and forgot the hideous brown wail-paper, the ugly carpet, and shabby furniture. Marjory and the new father were arranging the little Christmas-tree on a side table when the door opened, and a young woman who looked Jilè a girl came in. The two were so busy that they did not hear a sound, until a surprised "Oh made, them turn quickly. The slim figure in black had stopped on the threshold, and in the falling twilight of the December day the pale, beautiful face gleamed pcaily white. Coining into this deeper dusk, from out of doors, the straining eyes cculd see only the bright decorations, and the tall form of a man standing beside the child. But the man took a step forward, stammering her name "Evelyn" in a voice long unheard, except in dreams. Then — she knew. "Hugh!" she exclaimed. "You here ? How- did you iind out "i found him, Little :UoLher, a long way o!f, in the street, near where we used to live --at least I think it was near," cried Marjory, running to meet her mother, and pulling her into the room. "Then 1 brought him home, nnd if you. w ill ask 111111 to stay, h," says iie will try not to vanish. You will, won't jou ? lie "Wait, dear," broke in the young man. "Let me. explain, if [ can. Forgive me, Evelyn, for intruding upon you M>. I Imow i li:i iio right. But, by the sdr.uigest coui- eid'MK-c, your little child and I met. She told me many tilings how you had lost your money, and h-it the dear old house in Ken- r sington to conie here. I could hardly believe it at first, nut "It is the strange things that happen," said Evelyn Grenville, bitterly; "the things which seem too strange to be true. You know J was married when mv father lay dying. lie left everything to me: the old home, which 1 loved, and more money than I knew what to-do with. But my husband made unfortunate speculations, and there N\-Ct.e I suppose we were both ex- travagant. I knew little about the value of money. You must have read how he died — the great storm in the Mediterranean, where lie was yachting with fi iends — —" "Yes, I read of it. J wasiuhidia. I pietui-ed you a rich widow, and 1- I "Everything was gone, and there were I more debts to pay- many, many more. SOlll the homw to tiif-ill. I could get rid of it—after a dreaiilul year." "J heard never a word of that. hi a paper, 1 saw that it was rumoured Yoli would marry again." "There was no foundation for the rumour. I kaew too well whaj a uiuvr-iv^o wilhoui rove ——" Mile broke o:i: i'u{¡(w¡;lr WHtl J deep flush to pay for the inadvertent yvords. "Evelyn! You didn't love your husband Then why, for Heaven's sake, did you throw me over—send me away from you ? I had thought you eared a little, till that day. Then to hear from your own lips that I,ou were going to marry George Grenville "Oh, don't Ictus speak or it." "We must speak of it. Tell me why you married him. You owe me that. "You must have known why my father dj; not wish me to see you again. George tolc him the story of that poor girl whom you jilted, when you were both at Oxford, yot and lie how she killed herself* and "What, he told vour father that I jilted Dora Bi xter ? Yes. "It was he. It was for love of him sh killed iieiaelf. I kept his secret. But hnv. a uo/eii letters from llim which would have proved to your father Hugh, you swear to me that this is true ? "I swear it." "Then Heaven forgive poor George! It was the most dreadful wrong he did me. Believ- ing you hard-hearted, cruel—oh, the story- was a terribly sad one!—I didn't care what became of me. Father wished for the marriage, when he was dying. It was well fo" him that he did not live to see my misery. Oh, Hugh, 1 am glad and yet sorry that you have come back into my life again—my wretched, changed life. 1 would rather you had never known. The past is dead "But the present is alive. If I loved you then I worship you now, Evelyn. And I am rich, 1 can give you everything that you "Don't. 1 sent you :tW1\.Y when you were poor—though Heaven knoyvs that wasn't the reason, whatever you may have thought- can't take you to-day, now that you are rich." "Do you care could I make you erne, my darling ? "I don't know. I—that's not the question. "Oh, Little Mother, you aren t going to let him vanish, are you implored Marjory, whom they had both forgotten for the moment. "1 Jove him so much. He is so good, and I do so want to keep him for my father, after lie has been lost such a long time. And I took so much trouble to find him. She turned to the man. "Give her the ring J helped you to buy. If she yvill have it, y ou can stay you said you could. He took the ring from his pocket, and held it out with pleading in his eyes. "Take it, Evelyn, and all my heart with it," he said. "Don't send me out into darkness again." "No, don't, Little Mother," added Marjory. "We can't be happy without him now, and he can't be happy without us." "Perhaps—she is right," whispered Evelyn. "I do care—I have never dared to let myself think how much." He slipped the ring on her finger, and then, gathering her in his arms, kissed her sv- tet face under the mistletoe which he had hung on the dingy chandelier, not half-an- hour ago. Marjory saw, and was so glad that she laughed, until she found to her surprise that she was crying too. "He won't vanish now, ever," she said to herself, happily. "I do think I ought to givo Mary Jane another present, for if it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have known that the time to look for lost fathers is on Christmas Eve. [THE ED.] qga* 1

-n lid l' fit-,It of ftoli to&St eitind. inr? on the fender. She imagined at first that she must b«yl eonie into the yvrong room. As she stood in the dooryvay, half-dazed by the novel experi- ence. a voice behind the door cried "Boh!" The next minute h^r sister Milly s arms were round her, and Jennv could only gasp— for Millv ought to have been in the North of England with her companv. "Oh, Milly," she exclaimed, "whatever Joes it mean? You—you naven't—got your "Xo." said Milly, with a merry laugh; but I've left." L,.(t.' Then for the first time Jenny noticed that her sister was elegantly dressed, and was wearing a lovelv set of furs. "Oh. Milly," she cried, wli,at-,A-lirLt do'.< it all mean? ••Let us have tea and I'll tell you, re- plied Millv. "and don't be a goose and imagine all sorts of dreadful things, because it's all right." Jennv. more beyvil.lered than ever as she gazed at Milly's magnificence," sat down at die little table passively. Milly got the toast from the fender and poured out the tea. ow," she said, "first of all, bows mother? I left Manchester three days ago, and I haven't heard." Jenny shook her 11 9.H1. Things are very bad at home, dear," she said. I had a letter from mother this morning. She had to pay so much for father's illness that, even with her next quarter's mo"cx-. be 111 debt. I'm afraid it will be a very bad Chmt- mas at home. Father's better, tluuik Heaven but that's all the good news, the lest is dreadful." A simile passed ovor Milly's face for a moment, but it vanished quickly. "Andyo". •Jennv' she said, "what have you bee,) 10; n; out- still." replied.Jenny, with a sigh, "And 1 can't see a chance till the. spriuj, :tllfl you are- beautifully dressed. r,.nd— won't you tell me yvhat- it, means, Drlitk your tea while it's liot. Jeiiii look perished with cold. 1hat's better, prepare for it great surprise, and don't fa'n* yvhen I tell you all about it." "I won't faint." said Jenny, smiling in ripite of her anxiety. "Very well, then—I'm married." Married Oh. Milly—and vou l.rver——" Never wrote to you to tell you anything about it. not even that I was engaged. I know I didn't—I couldn't—I'd j)roiii,sed-I)iit don't interrupt, there's dear girl. Have some more tea and listen. Three months ago in Liverpool 1 met a young man. If" was a very nice youn.g man, and joined our company—in the chorus. Everybody liked him. I saw a good deal of him in the theatre, and I met him two or three times out of the theatre. Then lie began to wait for me, and to see me home—and all that sort of thing, don't you knoyv." In the cliorits exclaimed Jenny. Oh, Milly. you haven't married a——" I)o drink your tea before it gets cold, dear, and let me get on with n:y story. Well. it yvas just a touring friendship; but -one day Gilbert Grey, yvalking home yvith me from a morning rehearsal that had been called, told me that he was in love with me, and asked me to marry him." Three months ago Three months ago. Well. I liked him very much, but I had father and mother to think of. and I felt that if I married a man no better off than myself whatever I ear-ie-, would belong to a common purse, and I shouldn't be aide to send anything home, and so T said T liked him very Yriiell, )tit it was quite impossible. 1 didn't give him any reason. He took my refusal in a. very nice way. He seemed much upset, but he Hi "rl not to let me sec it—lie's quite yexung. you kno-.y. only five-nnd-twenty—and he < IjO bud; to i/tr flurtfic. "He wasn't in the chorus that night, and when he didn't travel with us on Sunday everybody said, 'Where is Gilbert G i-ey ? That is. all the girls did. I don't think the men cared so much for him- The manager said. Oh. lie's left. lie said pressing family matters required him to go tv) London, and asked me to let him go at once, and I did.' And you saw no more of him? "I heard from him once or twice. He wrote me a nice letter about a week after- wards. saying he yvas%oing abroad. Then. a month later, I got another letter from him, and then, a fortnight, ago. before I went on the stage, I heard the girls all chattering to- gether a<: the yvings. and telling each other that Gilbert Grev was in front. "i was a little "taken aback." as our dresser used to say, but wliau I went on I looked for him. and found he was in front, in the dress circle. I knew, all the time I was on he was looking at me.. The girls saw it, too. and began to joke me. but I said it yvas all nonsense, and laughed it off. But that everJmg. when I went out of the stage door, the tloorkeeper gave me a letter. It ":as fru.f1l G:ilhert Gr!)". asking if he might see nte for a. j'ew minutes the next day, and naming the AN-liere he would be. Well, he'd been awfully nice about everything, and I went. And then—he told me that he'd "tried to forget me—that he hadn't been abl(\ to-lie was awfully in love with me. and if I marry him lie should be miserable all Lis life." Then you ntarried a man in the-" Wait. This time lie was so serious that I told him the truth—I told him our story, of ihe loss that hifll ruiiied poor father, and T explained to him that J had to devote all I could spare from, my salary to my people. I ("'•uld not marry* I said.. and let them lose Jliy help.1 Then he tonA mv hand, and he said that he was glad I l}<ad given him my confidence, because now he -could give me his. "He had joined the company for fun. He had a good vok-e. and thought it would be awfully amusing to be in a chorus and travel yvith a theatrical company. But he wasn't a lialIN-. lie was very rich. and his own master, and li'e-iioii-" 'the time, you're not to faint. JelJlJ v-and he was a Lord." A Lorkl cried Jenny, starting up from the table in her excitement. b "Yes. dear, a real live Lord. His name ('t*' Was Gilbert Grey. but. he was Gilbert Grey, I Lord St. Orwald, \vith estates, and castles, and seats, and everything that a first class nobleman ought t-t) have." 011, Milly. you mean to say that you ve married a noble-man?" I do. my dear. and my 'marriage lines' are in my -at the hotel. We were married by special lie enee three days ago in Manchester, and we a re now 011 our honey- moon." Milly!" Jenny took her shjtpr in her arms and kissed her, and then bf-gan to cry. I- I can hardly bdve it," she said. "It seems like n, dream. And vou ,re reqllv-" Laoy yd. Orwald. pny de atr. Only I did not gi,ye that name +0 the landlady when I saio f d yyait till you came in, and ordered tea and toast for two." And nobody it Not yet. Gilbert, vants it kept quiet, and eo do I. W e are going abroad after Christ- mas. T hen the papers can nvike as much fuss about, it as they "tike," "But mother—and. father II Exactly; that s whv I asked Gilbert to put off the foreign trip till after Christmas. We have arranged, lie and 1. tlt you shall come with us. an^ that we shall, go down home and pay mother and father a surprise visit. Yoti say father is better? Yes. dear; ae is up and about jv^ain. All mother's trouble noyv is about, liow she is going to keep ille on with no money." won't, have to trouble anv ]ong<H* about- that-, dear. lvrr ayvfullv rich, you know. Gilbert has been e.liann'ng in money matters. I'm to have an 'nllowence thar will let nte make father and mother happy mid comfort- able- for the res/, of their lives*. B-it. oil. Jenny 1 '/0 yvaifil. to give them a. surpr'e.e. I want to drop in. on them like nice Christ- mas fairy, and Gilbert I have arranged 't all. aud you are to be "Üb us." Y< here is your husband now? He went down to Brakeley yest*>rdny. and I expect him back to-night. I'm staying at the Carlton." "Brakeley? Has he gone to see father, then? No. dear. Directly I'd agreed to marry Gilbert lhad an idea. He made inquiries, and found out for me that the Grange was still to let. So he instructed his solicitor to take it, and he's gone to Brakeley to make certain arrangements- Oh, Milly, you've Yes, I've—or, rather, we've—and don't ask any more, because we want you to be in the surprise. And uow you have to niaka haste and get ready, for you're going back to the Carlton with me. I've urdered dinner for three in our sitting-room, and we've got a lot to talk about before we start." Start?" Yes, dear. Gilbert and I leave the Carlton to-night at tell o'clock. for Brakeley in our motor, and you are coming Ni-itli it, I'll Nt-ral) N-OLT Ili) nice and AN-arni. and we shall be able tc fancy that we're oil a car with Santa Claus, bound for Christmas Land." The car of Santa Claus sped on that Christmas Eve through the snow-bound country. Mill" and her sister sat warm and snug in the closed-in compartment, while Lord St. Orwald occupied the front seat beside the chauffeur, and looked as Milly said really qui to like Santa Claus. only, of course, a good deal younger." The travellers stopped at a it hot-1 in Head- ing for tb» night, but early 011 Christmas Day th"V confinu'd th ur journey to Brakeley. It, yvas a sad Christmas Oiv for Mrs. Mar- love. She thought, of IUT girls far away from her. earning their pittance on the !a;r and she thought of h''r husband. n'> hapwlv re- stored to health, but only to learn. a;; h • must li; tt I i!,i i I r ti i e.v had re.v b"d had a low >r depth still. Mr. Marioll", though only a little past fifty, had aged,much under his trouble. As lie sat in the little sitting-room that, Christmas morning, and looked out v,tardy on the snow, his gaze far awav through the village to the old hou; e that had been his for so 111:111. happy years. He thought of the merry Christinas days he had spent with his It the Grange, when it. was-open house for all. and Yuletide was kept as the Yuh tide of country England used to be in the good old days. His wife came to him and put her hand in his. and they remained for a moment to- gether. silent and thoughtful-and sad. Suddenly there was a white whir of snow and the sound of something rushing over the ground. In another moment a motor-car rolled trp to the door, and stopped, panting and trembling like a live thing out of breath. Mrs. Marloyve uttered a cry of astonish- ment. "Frank." she said, iook There's Jenny—and Millv III another moment Mrs. Marloyve had opened the door and the girls were in her arms. "Mother." said Milly. we've come on a. surprise visit. Lord St'. Orwald lias kindly brought lis doyvn in his e«r." j^orct wt. Unvald hoyved to Mrs. Marlowe, and was conductor] into the sitting-room, where lie was introduced to Mr. Marlowe. "St. Orwald;" exclaimed Mr. Marlowe. "Ah. twettty years ago I kneyv your father. He was our county member for a time." Yes- T—er—T believe that was so." "And now. father," said Milly. "Lord t. Orwald—who is a great friend of mine—and I-OLI to come and spend the day with him. He-h,"s taken the, you knoyv." The Grange cried Mr. and Mrs. Mar- loyve together.. -"•—I—thought it yvould be ayvfullv nice if you would spend Christmas Day there." Two hours later Mr. "nd Mrs. Marlowe were at the Grange. Lord St. Orwald had taken them over in the motor with Jennv and Millv. The Grange was quite for his Lord- ship. It beautifully furnished, and the servants were all in attendance, and ]¡"ll Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe sat down as Lord St. Orwald's guests to the early Christmas din- ner in the old (lining-hall they almost for- got that the place was no longer theirs. Mr. Marloyve said go. and then Milly could keep her secret no longer. "My dear father and mother." she said, quite solemnly for her. I want to fling mv- self 011 my knees and implore your forgive- ness. I've been an awfully wicked girl Wicked exclaimed Mrs. Marloyve. Yes, mother I've kept a secret from von. I'm married, and if you please Lord St. Orwald is my husband." The old house ¡('as the home of the Mar- lowes once more. Milly explained to her father that it was her husband's wedding gift to her. and the furniture was theirs, too. It had been bought and arranged in a great hurry, but it looked as though it hnd been there for half-a-centurv. And when the evening wore on. and Jenny and Milly and their father and mother sat round the great Yule-log fire beaming and happy. Milly told them how it had been done, and she asked them if they didn't think it was a capital idea of hers to bring Santa Claus to them on a motor-car. Everybody said that it was. and Lord St. Orwald. sitting by the side of his voting wife, returned thanks "on behalf of Santa Claus." [THE ENID.1