Festivity! jollity! _never!_ I have paid my bills, and there are no gaps among my people. Sometimes I tremble when I think how many we are; one of us must go soon. But, as yet, when I count us over, none lacks. Father, mother, Algy, Bobby, the Brat, Tou Tou. Slightly as I have spoken of them to myself, and conscientiously as I have promised myself to derive no pleasure from their society, and even to treat them with distant coolness, if they are, any of them, and Bobby especially--it is he that I most mistrust--more joyfully disposed than I think fitting, yet my heart has been growing ever warmer and warmer at the thought of them, as Christmas-time draws nigh; and now, as I kiss their firm, cold, healthy cheeks--(I declare that Bobby's cheeks are as hard as marbles), I know how I have lied to myself. Father is not in quite so good a humor as I could have wished, his man having lost his hat-box _en route_, and consequently his nose is rather more aquiline than I think desirable. "Do not be alarmed!" says Bobby, in a patronizing aside, introducing me, as if I were a stranger, to father's peculiarities; "a little infirmity of temper, but the _heart_ is in the right place." "Bobby," say I, anxiously, in a whisper, "has he--has he brought the _bag_?" Bobby shakes his head. "I _knew_ he would not," cry I, rather crestfallen. Then, with sudden exasperation: "I wish I had not given it to him; he always _hated_ it. I wish I had given it to Roger instead." "Never you mind!" cries Bobby, while his round eyes twinkle mischievously; "I dare say he has got one by now, a nice one, all beads and wampums, that the old Begum has made him." I laugh, but I also sigh. What a long time it seems since I was jealous of Bobby's Begum! We are a little behind father, whispering with our heads together, while he, in his raspingest voice, is giving his delinquent a month's warning. That tone! it still makes me feel sneaky. "Bobby," say I, putting my arm through his substantial one, and speaking in a low tone of misgiving, "how is he? how has he been?" "We have been a little fractious," replies Bobby, leniently--"a little disposed to quarrel with our bread-and-butter; but, as you may remember, my dear, from _your_ experience of our humble roof, Christmas never was our happiest time." "No, never," reply I, pensively. The storm is rising: at least father's voice is. It appears that the valet is not only to go, but to go without a character. "Never you mind," repeats Bobby, reassuringly, seeing me blench a little at these disused amenities, pressing the hand that rests on his arm against his stout side; "it is nothing to _you_! bless your heart, you are the apple of his eye." "Am I?" reply I, laughing. "It has newly come to me, if I am." "And I am his 'good, brave Bobby!'--his 'gallant boy!'--do you know why?" "No." "Because I am going to Hong-Kong, and he hears that they are keeping two nice roomy graves open all the time there!"