“I found it on the Bowery,” explained mother, half guiltily,—“in a small German shop. It was very cheap, Elizabeth. So don’t worry!” How Robin’s eyes shone as he was carried into the back parlour, where the little tree stood sparkling on a table drawn up beside the couch! “There are presents on it, too,” says mother. And so there were! For from every branch and twig dangled a series of coloured pasteboard discs, lettered in white ink, and reading thus:— “A pearl ring, with much love to Elizabeth from mother.” “A pair of skates, for dear Ernie from mother.” “Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_,—three volumes, good type,—for Hazard from mother.” “A canary in a gold cage, for Robin from mother.” “An ermine muff and stole, for Elizabeth from mother,” etc., etc. All the dear, beautiful, dream gifts that mother would have given to her children, if only she had been able! The candles on the little tree began to blink and twinkle like living stars, the way lights will when looked at through happy tears. Even Robin understood. “I love my autoharp better than anything in the world,” he declared, dangling the small pasteboard disc by its red cord. “Even, even, better than Abraham Lincoln!” he cried. “Thank you _so much_, mother dear!” “And that Lockhart’s _Life_!” echoed Haze, as enthusiastically as if he expected to sit down to the first volume next minute. “_U-m-m!!_” “I hope I have not only succeeded in making you dissatisfied, my poor lambs,” said mother, a little anxiously. “Dissatisfied!” cried Ernie, striking out in fine skating style for the piano. “Do you think it’s a brood of ungrateful brutes you’ve hatched into the wor-rld, mum? Let’s have some carols now. I want to shout!” And so we did! Hazard quite off the tune, as usual, Robin piping away in his gay little treble, Ernie and I trying our best to keep the others up to time. It was all very jolly; and, as I said when I first sat down to write, we simply could not have passed a lovelier Christmas, no matter how much money we might have spent,—now do you think we could? Thursday, January 1. We sat up last night to watch the New Year in,—Haze, Geof, Ernie, and I. The workshop was cold, and we missed the flying-machine. “I do not believe,” declared Ernie, dejectedly, “that Resolutions do a bit of good. I have made the same four regularly for the last two years. I’ve written them out in red ink on a slip of paper, and kept them in my Bible;—and nobody seems to find me any nicer!” “Perhaps they were not the right kind,” hazarded Geof. “A good deal depends upon what one resolves, I suppose.” “The idea!” flashed Ernie. “I guess you did not make any better;—say my prayers, wash my teeth, love God, and the Boarders, so there!”