"Why, he holds it like a real violinist!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Can he play?"
Charlie answered her question by dragging his triumphant bow across the helpless strings, drawing forth a wailing discord of tortured sound.
"He thinks he can," giggled Constance. "I suppose those awful sounds are the sweetest music to his ears. Luckily, we don't mind them. I hope you don't. I hate to stop him, he is so delighted with himself."
"I don't mind in the least," assured Marjorie. "I wouldn't spoil his pleasure for anything in the world."
Charlie had no intention of giving a concert that morning, however; he had too many other things to distract his mind.
Marjorie sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree, her feet tucked under her, and listened with becoming gravity and attention while he told her about Santa Claus' visit, and one by one brought forth his precious presents for her to see.
"He must have had enough presents to go around this year or he wouldn't have left me so many," asserted the child with happy positiveness. "Connie's going to write him a letter and say thank you for me. If I don't say 'thank you' when someone gives me something, then I can never play in the band. Johnny and father always say it. I'm sorry I didn't write to Santa Claus before Christmas and ask him for a new leg. I can't go fast on this one. It's been wearing out ever since I was a baby and it keeps on getting shorter."
"Santa Claus can't give you a new leg, Charlie boy," answered Marjorie, her bright face clouding momentarily, "but perhaps some day we can find a good, kind man who will make this poor little leg over like a new one."
"When you find him, you'll be sure to tell him all about me, won't you, Marjorie?" he asked eagerly.
"As sure as anything," nodded Marjory, brushing his heavy black hair out of his eyes and kissing him gently.