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comfortably that we were not unduly neglected in the matter. The

contents of the box which the Story Girl's father had sent her



from Paris made our eyes stick out. It was full of beautiful

things, among them another red silk dress--not the bright, flame-



hued tint of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson, with the most

distracting flounces and bows and ruffles; and with it were little



red satin slippers with gold buckles, and heels that made Aunt

Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity remarked scornfully



that she would have thought the Story Girl would get tired wearing

red so much, and even Cecily commented apart to me that she



thought when you got so many things all at once you didn't

appreciate them as much as when you only got a few.



"I'd never get tired of red," said the Story Girl. "I just love

it--it's so rich and glowing. When I'm dressed in red I always



feel ever so much cleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts

just crowd into my brain one after the other. Oh, you darling



dress--you dear, sheeny, red-rosy, glistening, silky thing!"

She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen.



"Don't be silly, Sara," said Aunt Janet, a little stimy. She was

a good soul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her



ample bosom. But I fancy there were times when she thought it

rather hard that the daughter of a roving adventurer--as she



considered him--like Blair Stanley should disport herself in silk

dresses, while her own daughters must go clad in gingham and



muslin--for those were the days when a feminine creature got one

silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom more than one.



The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man--a little,

shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves.



"Why, it isn't new--it's an old book!" exclaimed Felicity. "I

didn't think the Awkward Man was mean, whatever else he was."



"Oh, you don't understand, Felicity," said the Story Girl

patiently. "And I don't suppose I can make you understand. But



I'll try. I'd ten times rather have this than a new book. It's

one of his own, don't you see--one that he has read a hundred



times and loved and made a friend of. A new book, just out of a

shop, wouldn't be the same thing at all. It wouldn't MEAN



anything. I consider it a great compliment that he has given me

this book. I'm prouder of it than of anything else I've got."



"Well, you're welcome to it," said Felicity. "I don't understand

and I don't want to. I wouldn't give anybody a Christmas present



that wasn't new, and I wouldn't thank anybody who gave me one."

Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him a



present--and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a

bookmark of perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow



worsted goblet worked on it, and below, in green letters, the

solemn warning, "Touch Not The Cup." As Peter was not addicted to



habits of intemperance, not even to looking on dandelion wine when

it was pale yellow, we did not exactly see why Felicity should



have selected such a device. But Peter was perfectly satisfied,

so nobody cast any blight on his happiness by carping criticism.



Later on Felicity told me she had worked the bookmark for him

because his father used to drink before he ran away.



"I thought Peter ought to be warned in time," she said.

Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half



an hour after it was tied on him. Pat did not care for vain

adornments of the body.



We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus,

and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us



afraid on that one day of the year. And in the evening--oh,

rapture and delight!--we went to Kitty Marr's party.



It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had

mellowed until it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow,



and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown

and mellow. A weird, dreamystillness had fallen on the purple



earth, the dark fir woods, the valley rims, the sere meadows.

Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that



her long wintryslumber was coming upon her.

At first, when the invitations to the party had come, Aunt Janet



had said we could not go; but Uncle Alec interceded in our favour,

perhaps influenced thereto by Cecily's wistful eyes. If Uncle



Alec had a favourite among his children it was Cecily, and he had

grown even more indulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw



him looking at her intently, and, following his eyes and thought,

I had, somehow, seen that Cecily was paler and thinner than she



had been in the summer, and that her soft eyes seemed larger, and

that over her little face in moments of repose there was a certain






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