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