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“Good enough to eat, I bet you!” John Fairmeadow agreed, with the air of having concealed in that veritable big basket the sweetest morsel in all the world.

“Ith it a chicken?”

“Nonsense!” said John Fairmeadow; “it’s fa-a-a-ar more delicious than chicken. Hi, there, Poll Pry!” he roared, and just in time; “keep your hands off.”

“Is it anything for the house?”

“No, indeed; the house is for it.”

Pattie Batch scowled in perplexity.

“The back yard, too,” John Fairmeadow added; “and don’t you forget that this whole place–and all the world–belongs to just what’s in that basket.”

“I’m sure,” poor Pattie Batch mused, scratching her curls in bewilderment, “I can’t guess what it could be.”

Both were now staring at the basket; and at that very moment the blanket covering– stirred !

“Ith a dog!” Pattie Batch exclaimed.

“Dog!” the outraged John Fairmeadow roared. “Nothing of the sort! No ma’am !”

Pattie Batch clasped her hands. “It ith, too!” she cried. “I thaw it move.”

“It is not !”

“Ith a kitten, then.”

“It is not a kitten!”

Thereupon–while the Shadow, by whom John Fairmeadow had been dogged that night, now peered with acute attention through a break in the frost on the window-pane–thereupon, without any warning save a second slight movement of the blanket, a sound–and not by any means a growl–the thing was certainly not a dog–a sound proceeded from the depths of the basket.

Pattie Batch jumped away.

“Well, well!” cried John Fairmeadow; “what’s the row?”

Row, indeed! Pattie Batch was gone white; and she swayed a little, and shivered, too, and clenched her little hands to restrain her amazing hope. “Oh,” she moaned, at last, far short of breath enough, “tell me quick: ith it–ith it a–a—-“

John Fairmeadow threw back the blanket in a most dramatic fashion; and there, wrapped in the neglected fawn-skin cloak, all dimpled and smiling, lay–

THE BABY!

“By George!” screamed Pattie Batch; “it ith a baby!”

“Your baby,” John Fairmeadow whispered. “God’s Christmas gift–to you.”

Pattie Batch–adorable, young mother!–reverently approached, and, bending with parted lips, eyes shining, and hands laid upon her trembling heart, for the first time gazed content upon the little face. She lifted, then–and with what awe and tenderness!–the tiny mortal from the warm basket, and pressed it, with knowing arms, against her warmer, softer young breast. “My baby!” she crooned, her lips close to its ear; “my little baby–my own little baby!”