“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow?

I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone,

too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you.

Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious

sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops

on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.

For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object

in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the

difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi

brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be

illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s