with her little broom so that father will give her five cents."

"I don't want to fweep 'e floor!" said the child, snapping her blue
eyes.

"She shall get her little broom and Fardie will help her," said
Langshaw, catching the child up in his arms and holding the round little
form closely to him before putting her down carefully on her stubby
feet.

Later, when the game of clearing up was over and the nickel clutched in
Baby's fat palm, he turned to his wife with a half-frown:

"Don't you think you are making the children rather mercenary, Clytie?
They seem to want to be paid for everything they do. I'm just about
drained out of change!"

"Oh, at Christmas!" said the wife expressively.

"Well, I hope nobody is going to spend any money on me; the only
presents I want are those you make for me," said Langshaw warningly. He
gave the same warning each year, undeterred by the nature of the
articles produced. His last year's "Christmas" from Clytie had been a
pair of diaphanous blue China-silk pyjamas that were abnormally large in
chest and sleeves--as for one of giant proportions--and correspondingly
contracted in the legs, owing to her cutting out the tops first and
having to get the other necessary adjuncts out of the scant remainder of
the material. "You hear me, Clytie?"

"Yes, I hear," returned Clytie in a bored tone.