When Father had been seen off at Lewisham Station with his bags, and a plaid rug in a strap, we came home again, and it was horrid. There were papers and things littered all over his room where he had packed. We tidied the room up--it was the only thing we could do for him. It was Dicky who accidentally broke his shaving-glass, and H.O. made a paper boat out of a letter we found out afterwards Father particularly wanted to keep. This took us some time, and when we went into the nursery the fire was black out, and we could not get it alight again, even with the whole _Daily Chronicle_. Matilda, who was our general then, was out, as well as the fire, so we went and sat in the kitchen. There is always a good fire in kitchens. The kitchen hearthrug was not nice to sit on, so we spread newspapers on it. It was sitting in the kitchen, I think, that brought to our minds my Father's parting words--about the pudding, I mean. Oswald said, "Father said we couldn't have much of a Christmas for secret reasons, and he said he had told Matilda to make us a plain pudding." The plain pudding instantly cast its shadow over the deepening gloom of our young minds. "I wonder _how_ plain she'll make it?" Dicky said. "As plain as plain, you may depend," said Oswald. "A here-am-I-where-are-you pudding--that's her sort." The others groaned, and we gathered closer round the fire till the newspapers rustled madly. "I believe I could make a pudding that _wasn't_ plain, if I tried," Alice said. "Why shouldn't we?" "No chink," said Oswald, with brief sadness. "How much would it cost?" Noel asked, and added that Dora had twopence and H.O. had a French halfpenny. Dora got the cookery-book out of the dresser drawer, where it lay doubled up among clothes-pegs, dirty dusters, scallop shells, string, penny novelettes, and the dining-room corkscrew. The general we had then--it seemed as if she did all the cooking on the cookery-book instead of on the baking-board, there were traces of so many bygone meals upon its pages. "It doesn't say Christmas pudding at all," said Dora. "Try plum," the resourceful Oswald instantly counselled. Dora turned the greasy pages anxiously. "'Plum-pudding, 518. "'A rich, with flour, 517. "'Christmas, 517. "'Cold brandy sauce for, 241.' "We shouldn't care about that, so it's no use looking. "'Good without eggs, 518. "'Plain, 518.' "We don't want _that_ anyhow. 'Christmas, 517'--that's the one." It took her a long time to find the page. Oswald got a shovel of coals and made up the fire. It blazed up like the devouring elephant the _Daily Telegraph_ always calls it. Then Dora read-- "'Christmas plum-pudding. Time six hours.'" "To eat it in?" said H.O. "No, silly! to make it." "Forge ahead, Dora," Dicky replied. Dora went on--