“She’s an awful sleepyhead,” complained Ethel. “She won’t stir for hours and hours.” The gun room was not yet warm when at nine o’clock Theodore lighted the candles on the two Christmas trees, Mame standing by worriedly with a bucket of water and a dipper to head off any flickering blaze. She had wrapped each child in a heavy coat, but even that did not keep small fingers from cramping with cold as they fumbled with strings and wrappings, squealing happily over their treasures. Ted gloated over a new sled while his mother wondered how it would be transported to Albany, for assuredly he would refuse to leave it behind. Ethel hugged a new doll and put it to bed repeatedly in its cradle her Aunt Bamie had sent, adjuring it to lie still now and Father would come and tell a story, maybe about cowboys. At ten o’clock Roosevelt impulsively decided to go to church, and Alice and Ethel insisted on going with him. Wrapped in heavy coats they set out in the carriage, the girls with their chins buried in fur, their small noses pink with frost. At the little Episcopal church Roosevelt got down and shook the door. It was locked fast. Presently a woman stuck her head out of the house next door. “No services today,” she said. “The minister is sick with the grippe.” She came closer. “It’s Mister Roosevelt, isn’t it? Governor now, ain’t you? My man voted for you. He was at San Juan Hill.” Instantly Theodore had his notebook out. “What was his name? I’ll remember him. I remember all my Rough Riders, they were a gallant lot of fellows.” She told him the name. “He got wounded in a skirmish. But he got over it. Now he travels around selling housewares for some folks in Jersey City. He’s away down in Pennsylvania today. It was too far to come home for Christmas but it makes it a dreary time when the man’s away, the young ones miss him.” As the carriage started up the hill Ethel announced, “I never got to put my five cents in the collection, Father.” “You mean you’ve lost it already?” “It’s in my mitten. Where Mother put it. Do I have to give it back to Mother?” “No, you may keep it. When we get to Albany you can take a ride on the streetcar with it, but unless you can promote a little more cash you’ll have to walk back,” he teased. “I’d have to take Mame with me,” she demurred, “and she always grumbles that her feet hurt.” The good smell of dinner met them at the door as they entered, and some warmth from the glowing fires that had been piled high with logs. The furnaces too gave up a grudging wave of heat and, warming his hands at the wood fire, Theodore was glad they would not have to struggle with inadequate heating much longer. This house had been built for summer and was delightful at that season, catching the breezes from the Bay. The trouble was that the wind was just as enthusiastic in winter, and the curtains at the windows now waved gently as it frolicked around the high gables.