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ONE DOLLAR AND EIGHTY-SEVEN CENTS. THAT WAS ALL. AND SIXTY CENTS ofit was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time bybulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher untilone's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony thatsuch close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. Onedollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabbylittle couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moralreflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, withsniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from thefirst stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnishedflat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but itcertainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter wouldgo, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coaxa ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name"Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a formerperiod of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 perweek. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of"Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriouslyof contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. JamesDillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called"Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, alreadyintroduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powderrag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey catwalking a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow would beChristmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim apresent. She had been saving every penny she could for months, withthis result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses hadbeen greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spentplanning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare andsterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of thehonour of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps youhave seen a pier-glass in an $8 Bat. A very thin and very agileperson may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence oflongitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of hislooks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass.Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colourwithin twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let itfall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs inwhich they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch thathad been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della'shair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft,Della would have let her hair hang out of the window some day todry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had KingSolomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in thebasement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed,just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shininglike a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and madeitself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up againnervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stoodstill while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With awhirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes,she cluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme Sofronie. Hair Goods of AllKinds." One Eight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sightat the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practisedhand.

"Give it to me quick" said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget thehashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no oneelse. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she hadturned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simpleand chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substancealone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good thingsshould do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw itshe knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness andvalue--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars theytook from her for it, and she hurried home with the 78 cents. Withthat chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about thetime in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked atit on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used inplace of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little toprudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted thegas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity addedto love. Which is always a tremendous task dear friends--a mammothtask.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lyingcurls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. Shelooked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, andcritically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes asecond look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorusgirl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar andeighty-seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the backof the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and saton the corner of the table near the door that he always entered.Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight,and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of sayinglittle silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and nowshe whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thinand very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to beburdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scentof quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was anexpression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her.It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, norany of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simplystared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had myhair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived throughChristmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--youwon't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfullyfast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don'tknow what a nice-what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he hadnot arrived at that patent fact yet, even after the hardest mentallabour.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just aswell, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--soldand gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it wentfor you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went onwith a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count mylove for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded hisDella. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny someinconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a weekor a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or awit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuablegifts, but that was not among them. I his dark assertion will beilluminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon thetable.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't thinkthere's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoothat could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap thatpackage you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then anecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change tohysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employmentof all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, thatDella had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautifulcombs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade towear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, sheknew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them withoutthe least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but thetresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able tolook up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast,Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh,oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to himeagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to {lashwith a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'llhave to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me yourwatch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his handsunder the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold thewatch to get the money to buy Your combs. And now suppose you putthe chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men-whobrought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art ofgiving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubtwise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case ofduplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventfulchronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwiselysacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that ofall who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give andreceive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest.They are the magi.