“I’ll come too,” Bram volunteered. “Now, don’t discourage me.” It was true that Nancy always was inclined to discourage him from taking an interest in her religion. Not that she took such a very profound interest in it herself, to tell the truth. But she had a dread of people’s saying that she had forced her husband to become a Catholic. He did at intervals bring up the subject of being received; but there never seemed to be time to take any steps in the matter when they were on tour, and when they were resting it seemed a pity to worry their heads about religion. However, that morning Nancy did not discourage Bram from accompanying her and Letizia to Mass. Letizia was very full of her visit to the Crib, when she saw Mrs. Pottage again. “And I saw the baby Jesus in his nightygown, Mrs. Porridge.” “You did?” “Yes, and He was lying on His back and kicking His legs up in the air ever so high. And there was a moo-cow smelling Him.” “No, darling,” her mother interrupted, “the moo-cow was praying to Him.” “Well, he was smelling Him too.” “You’d have to start walking the week before last to get in front of her,” said Mrs. Pottage. There was a letter from Nancy’s father to greet with seasonable wishes, her and hers, and as a kind of Christmas present there was an extra flourish to his already florid signature. He had been engaged to play Sir Lucius O’Trigger in a production of _The Rivals_ at a West End theatre, and he felt sure that this meant finally abandoning the provinces for London. There was, too, a letter from old Mrs. Fuller written by her companion. Lebanon House Brigham. Dec. 23rd, 1894. Dear Bram, I can no longer hold a pen, even to wish you a merry Christmas and a fortunate New Year, and as much to your Nancy and that unhappily named Letizia. Although I am indecently old—eighty-two—I ought still to be able to write, but I’ve had a slight stroke and I who once died to live now only live to die. Your loving Grandmother. Besides these two letters there were a few cards from friends, but not many, for it is difficult to keep up with people’s whereabouts on tour.