"Mother, at this rate, you'll soon be needing specs," called Dick, throwing open his bedroom door and looking out.
"But I don't see anything else for me, Richard," insisted his mother, as the boy entered the parlor.
"Look again, mother. Surely, you——"
Then Dick halted suddenly, staring hard at the table, and at the mantel beyond.
"Why, I left——" he began, and then looked more puzzled. At last he grinned as the solution of the mystery came into his mind.
"It's just one of dad's jokes," he laughed. "Or else dad forgot. I gave it to him last night, to lay on the table after you had gone to bed. You see, mother, this is the first Christmas that I have had money of my own with which to buy you something really nice. I'll ask dad where it is."
"Who's taking my name in vain?" called Mr. Prescott, as he came through the hallway and looked in the parlor. "Merry Christmas, Dick."
"Same to you, sir. But, say, what happened to that little package I handed you for mother?"
"I put it on the table before retiring last night," replied Mr. Prescott. "It must be there—but it isn't, is it?"
"Honest, now, dad, this isn't a joke, is it?"