“They’re putting two shillings’ worth of thripenny pieces in the pudding,” said Lord Gawdor. “I’ve had a stir at it—have you had a stir at it? It’s only eight days to Christmas—I’m to have a watch—a gold one—with a minute hand, but you’re not to tell, for it’s to be a surprise. Don’t you hope it’ll snow on Christmas Day?—I expect you’ll have lots of presents, too. Shall I tell you a secret?” “Not if you oughtn’t to tell.” “Oh, it doesn’t matter, if you keep it. Granny is going to give you——” “Don’t!” said Miss Lestrange, feeling as though she could weep at the thought of the innocent Christmas festivities, and the present being prepared for her. “It’s a grebe muff and a prayer-book,” said Lord Gawdor, hurriedly unlading his secret. “Oh!” said she, losing all sense of pathos in the shock of this information. “But you’re not to tell,” said Lord Gawdor. “I won’t,” said she. “Listen—who is that?” They had neared the nursery door, which was a bit open. “That’s Mr Fanshawe; he’s helping to nail up the holly.” Violet paused at the door and peeped in. Mr Fanshawe, in his shirt sleeves, was standing on a step-ladder, hammer in hand, vigorously at work. Doris and Selina were helping. “Pass me up the nails,” cried Mr Fanshawe. “Nails, not tin tacks, addle-head! One, two, three—that’ll keep it fixed. Selina won’t give up the ball of twine, won’t she? I’ll attend to her in a minute.” They all seemed so happy and busy that a mist came over Miss Lestrange’s eyes. All fear of the future suddenly cleared from her mind. Dicky, in his shirt sleeves, nailing up holly, was pre-eminently the figure of a man to whom one might trust oneself and one’s future. “Hullo!” said Mr Fanshawe, turning and beaming upon the newcomers. “You’re too late—everything is done, and there’s nothing to nail up, unless we nail up Selina.” Selina protested vigorously, and Miss Lestrange, taking her in her lap, sat down in the rocking-chair by the fire. “There’s the bunch of mistletoe,” said Lord Gawdor. “So there is,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Hand it up here and I’ll nail it out of mischief.” “I saw Uncle Molyneux kissing Kate under the mistletoe last Christmas,” said Lord Gawdor. “It was in the dining-room, and there was no one there; she squealed and ran round the table, and he ran after her and caught her round the waist, and gave her a kiss on the cheek that sounded like a cracker.” “Who was Kate?” asked Miss Lestrange. “The housemaid,” replied Lord Gawdor. “She had a face just like an apple,” said Doris. “Another nail, Mr Fanshawe?” “All shiny, you know,” said Lord Gawdor. “Like an apple when you spit on it and polish it.” These momentous disclosures were scarcely heard by Mr Fanshawe and Miss Lestrange, who were engaged in their own thoughts and a veiled attempt at communication. “I’ve fixed it all up,” said Dicky, nailing away at the mistletoe. “Wrote three letters—one to Aunt Domville.” “I’d love to meet her!” “You will soon—one to the manager of the railway——”