The following little cluster of Christmas fiction gives the most interesting portion of each story — the end. It will be observed that each author has carried out the animating Yuletide thought in his own way or her own way, as the case may be:

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THEIR 42D CHRISTMAS.
By W. D. Howells.
(Conclusion.)

      "Ah, what a beautiful Christmas," remarked Mrs. Bummephiz, as they sat on the piazza of villa del Spaghetti and watched the waters of the river Arno go wetly along. "It seems to put a new face on everything."

      "On everything except you, dear," remarked Mr. Bummephiz as he thoughtfully placed the warm end of his cigar in his mouth and listened musingly to the Christmas bells as they pealed out upon the soft Italian air.

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THE SAHIB'S GIFTS.
By Rudyard Kipling.

So 'e took 'is bloomink 'baccy. An' 'e shot the bugger there, An' 'e begged the weepin' widder Fer a ringlet of 'er 'air.

— From "The Man With the Wheels."      

      The pukka-sahib crossed the road. The memsahib crossed herself.

      "Have they mutinied at last?" she asked, "or are they mobbing the chaplain's house?"

      "Naw," said the pukka-sahib, biting a corner off the bungalow, and shouting "Hitherao!" to a garri who was smoking a bukshish. "Naw! The bloomink beggars is a-givin' of chaplain 'is Christmas slippers. Don't you hear the' Christmas bells a-pealing on the' frosty air?"

      And the chaplain said later on in the palanquin —

      But that can be made into another Christmas-story.

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RUBBERNECK OR HENHOUSE.
By Anthony Hope.

      * * * Now, while the swords were yet flashing in the air, old Sappy stood beside us, as grim as a man at a cold breakfast.

      "Let him have it!" he shouted.

      Rubberneck heard the words and turned on him, explaining:

      "Take that for your Christmas gift!"

      With that he ran him through and through, and threw him through the window.

      Turning to me, he said: "Now, having killed a man for this chapter, let us go into the castle and enjoy the Christmas festivities, for now the merry bells are pealing out upon the literary air of this novel."

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THE CHRISTMAS MYSTERY;
Or, Beatrice Biscuitte, the Bride of the Bold, Bad Baron.
By Laura Jean Libbey.
Chapter MDCCCLXVIII. (Conclusion.)

      The Christmas bells were pealing out upon the frosty air which surrounded the chateau de Rentdue.

      Turning to his fair young bride, the baron said: "Ah, Beatrice, now that you are no longer shooting biscuits in the beanery, there is one question I would ask you."

      "Ask it," said the beauteous maid, as she dropped some muriatic acid on her wedding ring.

      "What is that Christmas gift of mine for, anyway — a footstool 01 a collar box?"

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THE THINK OF THOUGHT.
By Henry James.

      * * * Having, then, perfectly made his plea, if, perhaps, it might not, more fittingly, be called a declaration, to her, who, indeed, was not averse, nor could she be, evidently, to listening, but, nevertheless, she, perfectly firm as ever, gave him, gently to understand, that, even the pealing, which they heard, of the Christmas bells, upon the frosty, and, doubtless, biting air, would not, even though he wished it, influence her; he, sadly, as who would not, left her, and walked out to the night, which was, as usual, all about, at that hour.