"At Christmas time we're to try to make other people happy," said Molly, meditatively. "I thought of something that would make a great lot of people happy, if you and aunty would do it, grandmother dear?"
"I don't think you did all the thinking about it, Molly," said Sylvia, with a slight tone of reproach. "I do think I did some."
"Well, I daresay you did. We did it together. It couldn't be for this Christmas, but for another."
"But what is it?" asked grandmother.
"It is that you and aunty should make a book out of the stories you've told us, and then you see lots and lots of other children would be pleased as well as us," said Molly. "Of course you'd have to put more to it, to make it enough. I don't mind if you put some in about me, grandmother dear, if you would like to very much."
"No," said Sylvia, "that would be very stupid. Grandmother couldn't make a book about us. We're not uncommon enough. We couldn't be heroines, Molly."
"But children don't care about heroines," said Molly. "Children like to hear about other children, just really what they do. Now, don't they, grandmother dear? And isn't my plan a good one?"
Will you answer little Molly's question, children dear? For dear you all are, whoever and wherever you be. Boys and girls, big and little, dark and fair, brown-eyed and blue-eyed, merry and quiet—all of you, dear unknown friends whose faces I may never see, yet all of whom I love. I shall be so glad—so very glad, if this little simple story-book of mine helps to make this Christmas Day a happy and merry one for you all.
THE END.