She could hear her creeping round the room; she heard K.K.’s tail go thump, thump on the floor; then there was a pause—then thud! Something fell on the carpet—thud! thud! "Oh!" came a breathless gasp—thud—thud—thud! "She’s knocked my stocking down!" Nell shook with laughter. Thud! Scrape—bang—she could hear Molly crawling about the floor picking up various parcels. Finally Nell was shaken up and down while Molly adjusted the stocking once more. Then she crept away. Just as she reached the door she blundered into a chair, and sent something crashing to the floor. From Sheila Pat’s bed came an irrepressible, long-suffering, "Sure I _knew_ she’d do that!" *CHAPTER XX* "So this is the best they can give us for Christmas in London!" observed the Atom, gazing frowningly out upon a yellow fog. "Get dressed and give poor old London a rest, Atom! We shall end by being late." There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" In came a beaming Sarah, carrying a tray laden with parcels. "Oh, miss! Oh, miss Shelerpat!—Same to you and many on ’em—I’m sure the picture’s lovely—it just might be the dog ’imself—and the scarf too—I shall wear it on my Sunday out, and I’m sure it’s very kind of you young ladies—thank you, miss—and mistress told me to bring these round to your rooms—" So Sarah, in a breathless rush of excitement. "Two for you, miss, and two for you!" "Well!" ejaculated Nell. "To think that Aunt Kezia—" She stopped abruptly, with a little catch in her breath. She had caught sight of the writing on the parcels; one was her mother’s and the other her father’s. There was a long letter from each as well as the Christmas present. Nell smiled as she read her father’s plaint: "We wanted to leave directions with your aunt to put these little presents into the various stockings she would be sure to find waiting if she were to look. But you see, mavourneen, she wouldn’t look! And I’m rather frightened of her, so I dared not insist. I tried to coax your mother into bearding her about presenting these to you at any rate on Christmas morning, but she (is she a dutiful wife?) pleaded her ill health, and declared she could not stand the stony disapproval she would see in Aunt Kezia’s eye. So I threw back my shoulders and twirled my moustache, and faced the enemy myself. I had to listen to a lecture on Irish thriftlessness, but perhaps I deserved that. Poor Aunt Kezia, she’s very dry and hard, and very opposite to all of you. But she is a good woman, and wants to make you all comfortable. But she doesn’t approve of Christmas presents. A twinkle comes into your mother’s eye (but she sternly represses the dimple you used to dig your baby fingers into) when I conjecture over her aspect on Christmas day this year! For we’re a very Christmasy lot, aren’t we, asthore? Be just as Christmasy as ever you can this year, my dear, and when you think of dear old Kilbrannan and us—as I know you