Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of everything, where yet _she_ was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas eve--last Christmas eve--oh, mamma!" Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing. "Don't you love Christmas time?" said she. "I think it's the pleasantest in all the year; we always have a house full of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think _that's_ the pleasantest. I s'pose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?" "No," said Ellen. "Don't you? Why, I always did ever since I can remember. I used to think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing, "I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fireplace as I could; but I know better than that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you?" "He's nobody," said Ellen. "Oh yes, he is; he's a great many people; he's whoever gives you anything. _My_ Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle George too this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the best of all my uncles." "I never had anybody but mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times." "I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both Christmas and New Year; but now I have grown so old, mamma only gives me something Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking would hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and great energy; "_we_ are going to make presents this year--we children. Won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make." "Who is it for?" said Ellen. "Oh, mamma; you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for mamma. I _thought_ of making her a needle-book with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them--he can paint beautifully--and having her name and something else written very nicely inside. How do you think that would do?"