The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I, why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have visitors of our own. I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments, papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very dull--he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as he generally did. Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eat _beef_, when there was roast turkey with dressing! Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again--never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.