good and at it, why--old Santa'll slide in the door. I reckon there'll
be plenty of gifts to go 'round."

The ladies were flitting about the tree, giving it final touches that
were never final. The Spangled Sisters were there in costume as Lady
Violet de Vere and Marie, the maid, in their new drama, "The Miner's
Bride." The theatre did not open until nine, and they were welcome
assistants of the Christmas tree committee. Every minute heads would
pop out the door to look and listen for the approach of Trinidad's
team. And now this became an anxious function, for night had fallen
and it would soon be necessary to light the candles on the tree, and
Cherokee was apt to make an irruption at any time in his Kriss Kringle
garb.

At length the wagon of the child "rustlers" rattled down the street to
the door. The ladies, with little screams of excitement, flew to the
lighting of the candles. The men of Yellowhammer passed in and out
restlessly or stood about the room in embarrassed groups.

Trinidad and the Judge, bearing the marks of protracted travel,
entered, conducting between them a single impish boy, who stared with
sullen, pessimistic eyes at the gaudy tree.

"Where are the other children?" asked the assayer's wife, the
acknowledged leader of all social functions.

"Ma'am," said Trinidad with a sigh, "prospectin' for kids at Christmas
time is like huntin' in a limestone for silver. This parental business
is one that I haven't no chance to comprehend. It seems that fathers
and mothers are willin' for their offsprings to be drownded, stole,