"I'm sure I never did," says I, with more than my usual spontaneity, for I felt it. "You never made a greater mistake," says E. E., fierce as a hen hawk. "It is because she has so much more brains--spirit--genius than any other children. A more splendid character never lived than my daughter Cecilia." I said nothing; maybe it would have been just as well if I had held my tongue before. "She is a favorite everywhere," E. E. went on, cooling down like a brick oven after the coals are hauled out. I said nothing. "Ahead of girls twice her age," E. E. went on. "She speaks French like a native." "Is there anything more to put on?" says I. "Yes," says she, "we will have the presents ready for the morning. I meant to have some of Cecelia's friends here to-morrow night, but she wanted the tree to herself." With this, E. E. brought an armful of boxes and things from the next room. The first thing she set up against the stem of the tree was a doll, dressed in a splendid silk ball-dress, with a long, sweeping train, and teinty rose-buds in her yellow curls. The blue eyes were natural as life, and her face was just lovely. Then she brought out a Saratoga trunk about as big as a foot-stool, which was crowded full of dolls' dresses, just such as a live young lady would be proud to wear. "Isn't it beautiful?" says E. E. "I should think so," says I; "how much did it cost?" "A hundred and twenty-five dollars," says she. "I sent to Paris for it." "A hundred and twenty-five dollars?" says I, lifting up both hands; "that would keep a poor family how long?" "I don't know," says she, short as pie-crust, "but a poor family wouldn't amuse my Cecilia, and these will." "Just so," says I; "what is this for?" "Oh, that is her father's present--pink coral--hang it across one of the limbs," says she. I hung the beads among the spruce leaves, and enjoyed the sight; they seemed like a string of rose-buds twisted in with the green. "There now, we will finish in the morning," says E. E. "I wish Cecilia had invited her little friends; it will seem rather lonesome." With this, Cousin E. E. gave a little sigh, and we went off to bed, telling me that I must be sure to get up in time for early service, which she wouldn't miss for anything. XVII. EARLY SERVICE. Dear sisters:--Before daylight on Christmas morning, I went to early service at the highest church in New York city, which, after all, isn't anything to brag of in the way of steeple.