“I wants a change, my dears,” reiterated Mrs. Sibley, bestowing a gentle shake on Rosanna, as a means of bringing her round, for the child, following her favourite mode of procedure when her feelings were too many for her, was rapidly growing black in the face. “I did tell Father so this marnin’--Father knows. He bain’t surprised, I’m sure. What must be, must be!” summed up Mrs. Sibley oracularly. Thereupon casting an inquiring eye round the room, she descried the warming-pan, which was hanging behind the door, pounced upon it, and stowed it away in the packing-case on top of the hearthrug. Silence reigned for some moments, broken only by the sobs of the children and the rustling of Mrs. Sibley’s packing-papers. “Ye’d best give the children their tea, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, looking up presently. “They be in need of it, poor things. There, don’t ye cry so, Florence. Ye’ll be gettin’ another Auntie soon--at least, I hope so. Though reelly I don’t quite see who ye can call in, Mr. Foyle, I don’t indeed. I passed the remark to Mrs. Fry to-day, an’ she said she was sure she didn’t know who you could turn to. Her own hands was full, she said. Poor ’Lina was worked a deal too hard for a maid of her age, already. Them was her words. But sit down to your tea, do, Mr. Foyle. Get the bread, Florence; ’tis time for you to be growin’ handy. ’Tis you as ’ull have to be keepin’ the house most like.” It might have been the result of Florence’s emotion, or it might have been owing to the fact that the shelf was a high one and Florence’s arms were short, but in some way or other in reaching down the loaf she managed to tumble it into the coal-box. Foyle rose hastily, pushed the child on one side, picked up the loaf, dusted it with his sleeve, set it on the table, and went out, banging the door behind him. As the sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the path, Mrs. Sibley rose to her feet and smiled upon the children, who were now sobbing afresh. “There, don’t ye make such a fuss,” she remarked soothingly. “Father’s a bit upset; ye mustn’t mind that. Get on with your teas, dears. There, ye may have a bit of jam to it to-night, as it’s Christmas Eve; and afterwards we’ll stick up some green, and you must all hang up your stockin’s and see what you’ll find there in the marnin’.” Cheerfulness was immediately restored; little faces grimed by tears smiled afresh; plates were extended for plentiful helpings of blackberry jam, and soon little tongues were gleefully discussing the morrow’s prospects, and particularly the treasures which might be looked for in the stockings. “But I’ve only got such a ’ittle stockin’,” lisped Rosanna, contemplating a chubby leg, which was, indeed, but imperfectly protected by about three inches of sock. “My stockin’ won’t hold half so much as the others.”