The fires would be warm and pleasant after the chill outside, but later icy drafts would creep out of the corners making the family shiver. It was fortunate the young Roosevelts were a hardy breed, all but Ted who was still inclined to be frail and subject to sudden illnesses. Theodore Roosevelt remembered his own sickly childhood and hoped for the best for his sons. Certainly he himself was tough enough now. There had been times in his youth when he had been forced to go to the high, dry western country to recover his health and strength. He still went back occasionally in summer to look after his cattle interests there into which he had sunk so much of his inheritance from his father. The ranch had been a losing venture for several years and there had been times when he and Edith had worried about being able to provide for their large, expensive family, but now the future seemed secure for at least a few years and Theodore Roosevelt had never been one to let anxiety harass him for long. He paused to look up at Sagamore Hill on his way back from the carriage house. The bulky building with its wings and high roof line stood out clearly against the sky of early night. The house had somehow the wrong colors, as Alice was apt to observe a trifle acidly, remarking that the mustard yellow of the shingles on the gables certainly did not harmonize with the rose-pink brick. Edith, his wise, firm, gentle wife, was waiting at the door. “Hurry off with your wraps,” she said. “Supper is ready and we have good hot soup.” “What, no wassail bowl?” bantered Theodore. “No boar’s head with a wreath of holly and an apple in his mouth? This is Christmas Eve, remember. Just plain old soup?” “Don’t make the children dissatisfied with their food, Theodore,” Edith chided. “Ted, let me feel your cheeks. They look very flushed to me.” “Frosty outside,” her husband reminded her. “I don’t want any more pills or brown stuff out of a bottle,” whined Ted, “and I don’t specially care for soup.” “Listen, son,” said his father. “You are always talking about being a soldier and a soldier learns first of all to eat what is put before him. I’m sure Mother has very excellent soup and it will be warming and welcome on this chilly night. I put wrong ideas in their heads,” he admitted, as they shepherded the children into the dining room. “A very foolish thing to do.” “Now you set an example of hungrily eating your soup,” said Edith. “At least there is a pudding later.” “Does it have burning brandy on it?” inquired Kermit who had been devouring pictures of the old-fashioned English Christmas lately. “No burning brandy, just hard sauce, but I suspect the cook put a drop or two of wine in it.” “Well,” approved Alice, “that will be a little exciting.” “You need to go to school, young lady,” commented her father.