"Oh, well, it's worth it! Think of the presents!" cried Jill gleefully. She skipped downstairs, and, sitting down before the writing-table in the drawing-room, pulled out a number of sheets of her mother's writing- paper, on which she proceeded to indite a number of epistles, in which words and spaces were curiously mingled. "Dear Aunt Margaret,--Thank you so much for the beautiful ... It is just what I wanted. It was so nice of you to send it to me. I think it is ... I hope you are quite well, and not having asthma any more,--Your loving niece,-- "Margaret." "Darling Cousin Flo,--I am so awfully obliged to you for the lovely ... It is just what I wanted. I am so pleased to have it. It will just do for ... I think Christmas is ripping, don't you? Please write soon to Jill." "Dear Mrs Gregory,--It is most kind of you to remember me with such a nice present. The ... is just what I wanted. I am much obliged to you for remembering me. Has not Christmas Day been ... this year?--I am your loving little friend, Margaret Meredith Trevor." "My own dear, darling Norah,--What an angel you are to send me that perfectly ripping ... It is just exactly what I wanted, and I am so proud to have it. Come round to-morrow and see my things. I've got ... altogether. Isn't that a lot? Don't you call this weather ...?-- Your own Jill." She was scribbling away--the table littered with the finished productions--when a hand fell on her shoulder and a stentorian voice cried-- "Eh, what? Too busy to hear me come in, were you? What's the meaning of this sudden industry?" and, starting up, she beheld the red, parrot- like visage of General Digby bending over her. This was not by any means the first visit which the General had paid in return for the "kind enquiries." He was a lonely old man, and to spend a few minutes in the cheery atmosphere of a family made a pleasant break in his daily constitutional. Mrs Trevor was always pleased to welcome him, but as she was aware that it was not herself but the children who were the attraction, she did not hurry downstairs on occasions like the present. "Writing Christmas letters, eh?" boomed the General loudly. "Sending off your presents, I suppose. Eh, what? _Thanking_ people for presents, do you say? That's a bit previous, isn't it? What's the hurry?" "Oh, there's always so much going on after Christmas, when the boys are at home, and it's such a bore sticking in the house writing letters. I use up the odd times before, in getting them as ready as I can, and then it only takes a minute to fill in the spaces."