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 carried the gifts home under his coat and secreted them in his bedroom.

Christmas morning he brought them downstairs. His father, appraising the cigars, opened his eyes wide in surprise. Bert felt no elation, but what—a difference it would have made had that look been testimonial to secure success instead of to a dying gasp!

"Bert," his mother whispered, holding the bag. "it's beautiful, but you shouldn't have spent so much money."

"What's the difference," he said; "I wanted you to have it."

Something in the words told her the whole story.

His own gifts scarcely moved him. He brightened at dinner, and ate his share of the good things, only to fall silent after the meal. He tried to read, but the book held no interest. He went out for a walk, found himself heading toward the store, and abruptly returned to the house. There was a new calendar in the hall showing the January page. The date, 18th, seemed to stare at him. He went into the living room, and sat at a window, and looked out at the street. January 18!

Mr. Quinby, studying him from the dining room, suddenly stood up and walked toward his chair.

"Bert, haven't you had enough yet of this confounded foolishness?"