"It is really wonderful, Lois, how a girl like you can argue the matter out in this way and keep so calm. Well, my dear, if you have quite made up your mind that you will not go back with me, I will try to catch the half-past two train. I think your aunt and the children hoped I might be home in time for dinner at five. Being Christmas Day, you know, they would all miss me. But before I start tell me where you go from here, and if you have money for present needs." "Our old nurse, who married the lodge-keeper, will find me accommodation for a few days. I am willing to work, and hope soon to find some employment. As to money, I have this." My face went very hot as I opened my purse. It held just half-a-sovereign, and about as much silver as made up a pound. "And is this all? My poor child, I have not brought a great deal with me, but I can spare you a five-pound note; and mind, you must write for more when you want it. My sister's orphan daughter shall not be without a shilling to call her own." I kissed my uncle's kind face, and thanked him, adding, "I shall pay this back, Uncle James. You have plenty of calls upon your purse without my adding to them. Will you please give me gold instead of the note?" He did as I asked, deprecated the idea of repayment, and went away, I am sure, full of good-will and affection towards me, but not a little relieved to find that, God helping me, I meant to help myself. I did sit down for a little while after my uncle left me, to indulge the grief which I had kept back whilst he was present. His allusion to all those who would be awaiting his coming, in order to gather round the Christmas dinner-table, was in such a strong contrast to my utter loneliness, that I was forced to let the waiting tears find a channel. This little indulgence did me good, and I was even able to picture the welcome that my uncle would receive, and to fancy how the troop of children would be looking for him, and set up a glad shout when he came in sight; how clinging arms would surround his neck, and the youngest of all the flock would insist on being triumphantly carried, held by his father's strong grasp, shoulder-high into his mother's presence, and she would also be waiting with words of welcome. Then my uncle would tell them about my poor father, and how he had left Lois so much better than he expected, and they would put the subject out of mind as a thing well got over, and begin to enjoy themselves as we had been used to do on bygone Christmas Days. I did not think hardly of them as I drew this mental picture. My aunt was only akin by marriage, and of the large troop of cousins we knew but little personally.