It would be difficult to say which enjoyed the doll house more, Lydia or Patience. It would be difficult to say which one was the more touched, Lizzie or Amos by the package each found on the breakfast table. Amos unwrapped his to find therein a pipe tray fashioned from cigar box wood and stained with Lydia's walnut dye. Lizzie's gift was a flat black pin-cushion, with "Lizzie, with love from Lydia," embroidered crazily on it in red. Florence Dombey showed no emotion over her gift, a string of red beads that had a curious resemblance to asparagus seed-pods, but she wore them gracefully and stared round-eyed at all the festivities. Lydia and Patience each wore pinned to her dress a cotton handkerchief, Lizzie's gift. John Levine appeared at noon, laden like a pack horse. This was his great opportunity during the year to do things for the Dudley children and he took full advantage of the moment. Books for Lydia, little toys for the baby, a pipe for Amos, a woolen dress pattern for Lizzie, a blue sailor suit for Lydia, a fur hood for Patience. John's thin, sallow face glowed, his black eyes gleamed as he watched the children unwrap the packages. In the midst of the excitement, Lydia shrieked. "My ducks! My ducks!" and bolted for the kitchen. "The pie!" cried Lizzie, panting after her. "Don't tell me they're spoiled!" groaned Amos, as with John and the baby, he followed into the kitchen. "Safe!" shouted Lydia, on her knees before the oven. "Just the pope's nose is scorched! The pie is perfect." "Let's eat before anything else happens," said Amos, nervously. "Lord!" said John Levine, "who'd miss spending Christmas where there are children? I'd a gotten out here to-day if I'd had to come barefooted." The dinner was eaten and pronounced perfect. The gifts were re-examined and re-admired. John Levine, with Lydia and Florence Dombey on his lap, Amos with the drowsy little Patience in his arms, and Lizzie, her tired hands folded across her comfortable stomach, sat round the base burner while the wind rose outside and the boom of the ice-locked lake filled the room from time to time. "Fearful cold when the ice cracks that way," said Amos. "'The owl, for all his feathers was a-cold,'" murmured Lydia. "Where'd you get that and what's the rest of it?" asked Levine. "Selected Gems," replied Lydia. "It's a book at school. "'St. Agnes Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl for all his feathers was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass And silent was the flock in woolly fold.' I forget the rest." The grown-ups glanced at each other over the children's heads. "Say your pretty Christmas poem you spoke at school, Lydia," suggested old Lizzie. Lydia rested her head back comfortably on John's shoulder and rambled on in her childish contralto.