“And feeding Matilda has become one of the things that is turning my auburn tinted locks a soft, delicate gray,” she told Helen. “I know if any catastrophe were to happen all at once, my passing words would be, ‘Put a stick of wood in the stove.’” Jean felt around in her desk until she found her folio of sketches. The sitting room was deserted excepting for Helen watering the rows of blooming geraniums on the little narrow shelves above the sash curtains. Cherilee, the canary, sang challengingly to the sunlight, and out in the dining-room Doris was outmatching him with “Nancy Lee.” Helen went upstairs to her father, and Kit appeared with a frown on her face, puzzling over a pattern for filet lace. “I think the last days before Christmas are terrible,” she exclaimed savagely. “What on earth can we concoct at this last minute for Cousin Beth? I think I’ll crochet her a filet breakfast cap. It’s always a race at the last minute to cover everybody, and you bite off more than you can chew and always forget someone you wouldn’t have neglected for anything. What on earth can I give to Judge Ellis?” “Something useful,” Jean answered. “I can’t bear useful things for Christmas presents. Abby Tucker says she never gets any winter clothes till Christmas and then all the family unload useful things on her. I’m going to send her a bottle of violet extract in a green leather case. I’ve had it for months and never touched it and she’ll adore it. I wish I could think of something for Billie too, something he’s never had and always wanted.” “He’s going away,” Jean mused. “Why don’t you fix up a book of snapshots taken all around here. We took some beauties this summer.” “A boy wouldn’t like that.” “He will when he’s homesick.” Jean opened her folio and began turning over her art school studies. Mostly conventionalized designs they were. After her talk with Cousin Beth they only dissatisfied her. Suddenly she glanced up at the figure across the table, Kit with rumpled short curls and an utterly relaxed posture, elbows on table, knees on a chair. There was a time for all things, Kit held, even formality, but, as she loved to remark sententiously when Helen or Jean called her up for her lax ways, “A little laxity is permissible in the privacy of one’s own home.” Jean’s pencil began to move over the back of her drawing pad. Yes, she could catch it. It wasn’t so hard, the ruffled hair, the half averted face. Kit’s face was such an odd mixture of whimsicality and determination. The rough sketch grew and all at once Kit glanced up and caught what was going on.