“Don’t know, mothery; but it’s getting light, and I must get up and see about breakfast.” “Yes, and we’re to have Indian; Thorne insisted on it.” “What in the world is that?” thought Floy, raising her head to look at Hetty, who was making a hasty but very quiet toilet. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they cried simultaneously, ending in a merry laugh. “We’ll exchange Yankee sixpences when we get our faces washed,” said Hetty. “Breakfast in twenty minutes precisely. Indian all hot and hot!” and with the last word she darted from the room. “Thorne gives a good bit o’ trouble one way and another,” observed Mrs. Goodenough, who had risen also and was dressing much more deliberately than Hetty had done; “he’ll have what he wants in spite of everything (in the line of trouble to other folks ’specially). But then there ain’t many that’s equivalent to him in learning. There isn’t anything but what he’s read; he knows everything. So it’s quite natural Prue should be proud of him and spoil him with humoring all his whims.” “Do we all breakfast together this morning, Mrs. Goodenough?” asked Floy. “Yes; but I’m going to wear this thick wrapper; it’s not handsome or dressy, but the comfort supersedes the outward appearance.” With this remark she left the room. Floy was glad of the few moments of solitude thus afforded her. It was growing light, and she found time before the call to breakfast for another peep at her precious letter. She hurried down at the first stroke of the bell, anxious to avoid meeting the Sharps on the stairway. Patsy, in her ordinary soiled, frowsy-headed, slipshod condition, was setting the chairs up to the table, on which Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty were arranging an unusually inviting meal. “Don’t delude yourself with the hope that you are about to be regaled upon pound-cake, Miss Kemper,” remarked Hetty, placing a loaf of hot corn-pone near Floy’s plate, another at the farther end of the board. “No, it’s only Indian,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “but it’s splendid, and more than equivalent to pound-cake for breakfast.” “Yes indeed,” said Floy, “_I_ greatly prefer it, at any rate; I’m extremely fond of good corn-bread.” “Well, Hetty’s is always superior to the best.” “Superior to the best, eh?” sneered the Thorne, as with pompous air he came leisurely in and took his accustomed seat. “Madam, that is a contradiction in terms.” “Well, if it isn’t good enough for you, you needn’t eat it,” she returned indifferently; “but let’s sit down and begin while it’s hot.” The Thorne was evidently in no holiday mood. “Where are the children?” he demanded, with a scowl, glancing about upon the empty seats as he took up the carving knife and fork. “Don’t wait for them; they’ll be here presently,” said his wife. “Presently, madam!” he growled; “they ought to have been ready an hour ago. You are bringing up your children to ruinous habits of self-indulgence.” “Example is better than precept,” Hetty could not help remarking.