"Oh, yes, the children can go as long as Ben and Polly are with them," said Mother Fisher, with pride. "I'll trust them anywhere," her face said as plainly as if she had put it all into words.

"I wish I could go with them." Mrs. Whitney took her gaze from the busy fingers sorting the pile of small stockings Jane had brought up from the laundry, and went abruptly over to the window with a troubled face.

"But you can't," said Mrs. Fisher, cheerfully, nowise dismayed at the number of holes staring up at her, "so don't let us think any more of it. And Ben's big enough to take them anywhere, I'm sure. And Polly can look after their manners," she thought, but didn't finish aloud.

"You see father didn't know about this picture exhibit till Mr. Cabot's note came a half hour ago, begging him not to miss it. And if I told him of the children's plans, he'd give the whole thing up and stay at home rather than have them disappointed. He mustn't do that."

"Indeed he mustn't!" echoed Mrs. Fisher, in her most decided fashion, and putting the last stocking into place on top of the big pile on the table. "Hush! Here comes Polly!"

"Oh, Mamsie!" Polly rushed up to the work-table. "Just think what splendid fun!" She threw her arms around Mrs. Fisher's neck and gave her a big hug. "Isn't Aunty Whitney too lovely for anything to take us out to buy our Christmas presents? Dear me! What richness!"

"Polly, see here, child," Mother Fisher brought her face around to look into the rosy one; "Mrs. Whitney cannot—"

Polly tore herself away with a gasp, and stood quite still, her brown eyes fixed on Mother Fisher's face, and the color dying out of her cheek. "Do you mean we are not to go, Mamsie?" she cried, her hands working nervously; "we must!" she brought up passionately.

"You see, Polly," Mrs. Whitney came quickly away from the window. Polly at that turned and stared in dismay. O dear! To think Aunty Whitney was there, and now she would be so distressed. "It is just this way," Mrs. Whitney was hurrying on in quite as unhappy a state as Polly had feared: "Father has received word that there is a picture exhibit this afternoon, and I must go with him. I'm sorry, dear, but it can't be helped." She bent to kiss Polly's cheek where the color had rushed this time up to the brown hair.

"I'm so sorry, too," Polly burst out, clinging to Mrs. Whitney's hand. Oh, why had she given way to her passion? The tears were running down her cheeks now, "I didn't mean—" she murmured.

"Why, you are going, Polly," said Mrs. Whitney, comfortingly, and patting the brown hair.

"What?" exclaimed Polly, bringing up her head suddenly to stare into the kind face.

"Yes," laughed Mrs. Whitney, "the Christmas shopping isn't to be given up. Mrs. Fisher is going to let you and Ben take the children. Just think, Polly, that's much better than to go with me," she finished gayly.

All this time Mother Fisher had sat quite still, her

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