Dorothy had a variety of ways of crying. When angry her tears were accompanied by shrill squeals, as pathetic as a fife playing Yankee Doodle. If she hurt herself she was more likely to relieve her feelings by noise than by tears, suggesting those summer showers whose thunder peals and lightning flashes prepare us for a deluge, but which content themselves, after all, with a few scattering drops. These emotional outbreaks on Dorothy’s part Peggy took philosophically. But when she cried softly, hiding the face down which the big tears were coursing, while the sobs shook her little body, then indeed, it was another matter. "Dorothy!" Peggy cried, dropping down on her knees beside the despondent figure. "Dorothy, what is the matter? What are you crying about?" "Aunt Peggy." It was a full minute before Dorothy could answer, and then the quiver running through the words pierced Peggy’s heart. "Ain’t Christmas going to be over pretty quick?" "It comes next week, honey." "Well, I’ll be glad when it’s gone." A great sob emphasized the statement. "It’s such a horrid time." "Dorothy!" Peggy was aghast: "You can’t mean that you don’t like Christmas." "It’s a horrid time," Dorothy repeated, with every indication of sincerity. "Folks lock doors. And then they tell you to go and play, and there ain’t anyfing to play. And there’s nice fings, but you can’t see ’em." She sobbed again as she painted the black picture, and Peggy hastened to explain, "But, darling, you will see them on Christmas day. Think what a good time you will have when you find out all the secrets." "But I want a good time now," said Dorothy explosively. For once Peggy had no reply ready. What was there to be said? Of course Dorothy did. Who could reasonably expect this little human thistle-down to fold her hands and wait patiently through weeks of Christmas preparations in which she had no share. Peggy, absorbed in her plans, had found no time for the stories Dorothy loved, for the little after-supper frolics, for candy pulls in the kitchen, for walks over the snow. All these joys had been discontinued with a vague promise of something very nice to happen by and by. What wonder Dorothy was dissatisfied? "And getting ready for Christmas is almost the nicest part," Peggy thought. "And here I’ve locked my door and shut her out of it. It’s no wonder she thinks Christmas is horrid." She lowered her voice mysteriously. "Dorothy, how would you like to help me make a Jack Horner pie?" The hands which covered Dorothy’s eyes dropped to her knees. The little face revealed was more suggestive of April than of December, with the wet eyes shining, and the dimples swallowing up stray tear drops. "A Jack Horner pie?" repeated Dorothy in a thrilled whisper. "Yes." "Will we put in a fum and pull out a plum?" "They’ll be funny plums. Come and I’ll show you. But we’ll lock the door, because this is our secret and nobody must know."