“Come, get off to bed,” said the doctor, putting on his coat. “To-morrow morning you shall have the wet-nurse. No, by the way, I’ll call for you, and we will go and choose her together; it is curious. Be under arms at half-past eight.” CHAPTER XXIII. NEW YEAR’S DAY It is barely seven o’clock. A pale ray of daylight is stealing through the double curtains, and already some one is tapping at the door. I can hear in the next room from the stifled laughter and the silvery tones of Baby, who is quivering with impatience, and asking leave to come in. “Papa,” he cries, “it is Baby, it is Baby come for the New Year.” “Come in, my darling; come quick, and kiss us.” The door opens and my boy, his eyes aglow, and his arms raised, rushes toward the bed. His curls, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, float on his forehead. His long, loose night-shirt, catching his little feet, increases his impatience, and causes him to stumble at every step. At length he crosses the room, and, holding out his two hands to mine: “Baby wishes you a Happy New Year,” he says, in an earnest voice. “Poor little love, with his bare feet! Come, darling, and warm yourself under the counterpane.” I lift him toward me, but at this moment my wife, who is asleep, suddenly wakes. “Who is there?” she exclaims, feeling for the bell. “Thieves!” “It is we two, dear.” “Who? Good heavens! how you frightened me! I was dreaming the house was on fire, and that I heard your voice amid the raging flames. You were very indiscreet in shouting like that!” “Shouting! but you forget, mamma, that it is New Year’s Day, the day of smiles and kisses? Baby was waiting for you to wake up, as well as myself.” However, I wrap the little fellow up in the eiderdown quilt and warm his cold feet in my hands. “Mamma, it is New Year’s Day,” he exclaims. With his arms he draws our two heads together, puts forward his own and kisses us at haphazard with his moist lips. I feel his dimpled fists digging into my neck, his little fingers entangled in my beard. My moustache tickles the tip of his nose, and he bursts into a fit of joyous laughter as he throws his head back. His mother, who has recovered from her fright, takes him in her arms and rings the bell. “The year is beginning well, dear,” she says, “but we must have a little daylight.” “Mamma, naughty children don’t have any new toys on New Year’s Day, do they?” And as he says this the sly fellow eyes a pile of parcels and packages heaped up in one corner, visible despite the semidarkness. Soon the curtains are drawn aside, and the shutters opened; daylight floods the room; the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, and two large parcels, carefully tied up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife, and the other for my boy. “What is it? What is it?” I have multiplied the knots and tripled the wrappings, and I gleefully follow their impatient fingers entangled among the strings.