You remember, little Dear-My-Love, how it feels just before Christmas. Well, it was that kind of a morning. Nearly everyone carried mysterious bundles, and Christmas sights and sounds were everywhere.
The Child was very happy. She and the Storyist were on their way to buy the Gift. She felt that she needed advice. She had been surprisingly meek and quiet the last few days.
“What made you give up your plan?” asked the Storyist. “Didn’t it suit you?”
“No,” said the Child. “Besides, the people in it weren’t happy.”
“How do you know?” the Storyist returned. And then the Child related the Dream.
It was all very interesting and the Storyist listened attentively.
“So you see,” concluded the Child, “it wouldn’t do.”
The Storyist thought. “What do you think a Gift ought to be like?” she asked.
“It ought to be something beautiful all through, and something good and real and that would make people glad,” the Child answered. She had thought it out quite carefully.
The Storyist promised to do the best she could.
They spent a good deal of time looking in the shops and at last made their purchase. Now it doesn’t matter, little Dear-My-Love, just what it was; only it was something that Lady-Mother needed and it was nice and the Child was satisfied with it.
“But there’s only one Gift,” remarked the Storyist on their way home, “that is really everything that you say a Gift ought to be.”
“What is that?” asked the Child.
The Storyist looked down at her very tenderly.
“Love,” she said.
And after that, little Dear-My-Love, people often wondered that she was such a thoughtful Child and tried so hard to make everybody comfortable. But you know why.