the big odorous purple bunches that offered a royal gift of sweetness for every penny invested.
Atlantic and Pacific Simonson had previously known little, and Marm Lisa less, of Christmas time, but the whole month of December in Mistress Mary’s garden was a continual feast of the new-born Babe. There was an almost oppressive atmosphere of secrecy abroad. Each family of children, working in the retirement of its particular corner, would shriek, "Oh, don’t come!" and hide small objects under pinafores and tables when Mary, Rhoda, Edith, or Helen appeared. The neophyte in charge was always in the attitude of a surprised hen, extending her great apron to its utmost area as a screen to hide these wonderful preparations. Edith’s group was slaving over Helen’s gift, Rhoda’s over Edith’s, and so on, while all the groups had some marvelous bit of coöperative work in hand for Mistress Mary. At the afternoon council, the neophytes were obliged to labor conscientiously on presents destined for themselves, rubbing off stains, disentangling knots, joining threads, filling up wrong holes and punching right ones, surrepti-
