"Well, you’ve got them all here," exulted Jim Dent. "Nobody but you could have done it. Uncle Sam’s coming, Anne says. That’s great, Uncle Stephen!" "I am confidently expecting Samuel," responded the elder man. "How it will turn out I hardly dare think. They may not speak to-night. This is only Christmas Eve. But to-morrow, Jim, is Christmas Day!" "Yes, to-morrow’s Christmas Day, Uncle Steve." "Can brothers refuse to speak—on Christmas Day, Jim?" "I don’t believe they can—under your roof, Uncle Steve." "My roof, boy! Under God’s roof!" "It’s pretty nearly the same thing," murmured Jim Dent, not irreverently. "I may need your help, Jim." "Sheep-dog—to bark at their heels and run them into the same pasture?" Uncle Stephen smiled. His eyes and Jim’s met with a twinkle. "Just about that, perhaps," he admitted. "I can’t tell yet. But keep your eyes open." "I’ll stand by," agreed his nephew. "It’s a good thing the kiddies are here, Uncle Steve. When I came in Uncle George’s children and Uncle William’s were keeping more or less in separate squads, but the minute they pitched on to me the whole bunch were so tangled up I don’t think they’ll ever get untangled again. I had a glance at the fathers and mothers. Their faces were worth coming to see." Mr. Kingsley looked at Jim earnestly. "I’m counting on the children, boy," said he. "When it comes to a general mix-up," replied Jim Dent, "you can count on the youngsters every time." The gray roadster belonging to Mr. Samuel Kingsley ran swiftly and silently through the gateway and up to the side entrance of his brother Stephen’s home. Mrs. Samuel sat beside her husband; a sharp-eyed mechanician rode in the rumble behind. "How long, Evans?" inquired Mr. Kingsley as the machine came to a standstill. "Forty-two minutes, sir. That’s pretty good time over these icy roads." "I should say so. Came as fast as if I wanted to come," muttered the man of affairs, with his hand under his wife’s arm to escort her up the steps. "As fast as if I wouldn’t rather be hung, drawn and quartered than meet that skinflint Sylv—" "Sam!" Mrs. Sam pressed his hand with her plump arm against her side. "Please be civil to Sylvester for Stephen’s sake and the children’s. Don’t let him or them see signs of the quarrel—not at Christmas, dear." "I won’t shake hands with him," growled Samuel. "Not with Stephen himself looking on." "Yes, you will, dear, on Christmas Eve," whispered Mrs. Sam. By which it may be seen that the mothers of many children have large hearts, and that Mr. Stephen Kingsley had with him one more ally than he knew.