CHAPTER I
A BOTHERSOME BAG
"Mother, are you there?"
"Yes, Marjorie; what is it, dear?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to know. Is Kitty there?"
"No; I'm alone, except for Baby Rosy. Are you bothered?"
"Yes, awfully. Please tell me the minute Kitty comes. I want to see her."
"Yes, dearie. I wish I could help you."
"Oh, I wish you could! You'd be just the one!"
This somewhat unintelligible conversation is explained by the fact that while Mrs. Maynard sat by a table in the large, well-lighted living-room, and Rosy Posy was playing near her on the floor, Marjorie was concealed behind a large folding screen in a distant corner.
The four Japanese panels of the screen were adjusted so that they enclosed the corner as a tiny room, and in it sat Marjorie, looking very much troubled, and staring blankly at a rather hopeless-looking mass of brocaded silk and light-green satin, on which she had been sewing. The more she looked at it, and the more she endeavored to pull it into shape, the more perplexed she became.
"I never saw such a thing!" she murmured, to herself. "You turn it straight, and then it's wrong side out,—and then you turn it back, and still it's wrong side out! I wish I could ask Mother about it!"
The exasperating silk affair was a fancy work-bag which Marjorie was trying to make for her mother's Christmas present. And that her mother should not know of the gift, which was to be a surprise, of course, Marjorie worked on it while sitting behind the screen. It was a most useful arrangement, for often Kitty, and, sometimes, even Kingdon, took refuge behind its concealing panels, when making or wrapping up gifts for each other that must not be seen until Christmas Day.
Indeed, at this hour, between dusk and dinner time, the screened off corner was rarely unoccupied.
It was a carefully-kept rule that no one was to intrude if any one else was in there, unless, of course, by invitation of the one in possession. Marjorie did not like to sew, and was not very adept at it, but she had tried very hard to make this bag neatly, that it might be presentable enough for her mother to carry when she went anywhere and carried her work.
So Midget had bought a lovely pattern of brocaded silk for the outside, and a dainty pale green satin for the lining. She had seamed up the two materials separately, and then had joined them at the top, thinking that when she turned them, the bag would be neatly lined, and ready for the introduction of a pretty ribbon that should gather it at the top. But, instead, when she sewed her two bags together, they did not turn into each other right at all. She had done her sewing with both bags wrong side out, thinking they would turn in such a way as to conceal all the seams. But instead of that, not only were all the seams on the outside, but only the wrong sides of the pretty materials showed, and turn and twist it as she would, Marjorie could not make it come right.
Her mother could have shown her where the trouble lay, but Marjorie couldn't consult her as to her own surprise, so she sat and stared at the exasperating bag until Kitty came.
"Come in here, Kit," called Midget, and Kitty carefully squeezed herself inside the screen.
"What's the matter, Mopsy? Oh, is it Mother's—"
"Sh!" said Marjorie warningly, for Kitty was apt to speak out thoughtlessly, and Mrs. Maynard was easily within hearing.
"I can't make it turn right," she whispered; "see if you can."
Kitty obligingly took the bag, but the more she turned and twisted it, the more obstinately it refused to get right side out.
"You've sewed it wrong," she whispered back.
"I know that,—but what's the way to sew it right. I can't see where I made the mistake."
"No, nor I. You'd think it would turn, wouldn't you?"
Kitty kept turning the bag, now brocaded side out, now lining side out, but always the seams were outside, and the right side of the materials invisible.
"I never saw anything so queer," said Kitty; "it's bewitched! Maybe King could help us."
Kingdon had just come in, so they called him to the consultation.
"It is queer," he said, after the situation was noiselessly explained to him. "It's just like my skatebag, that Mother made, only the seams of that don't show."
"Go get it, King," said Marjorie hopefully. "Maybe I can get this right then. Don't let Mother see it."
So King went for his skatebag, and with it stuffed inside his jacket, returned to his perplexed sisters.
"No; I don't see how she did it," declared Marjorie, at last, after a close inspection of the neatly-made bag, with all its seams properly out of sight, and its material and lining both showing their right sides. "I'll have to give it to her this way"
"You can't!" said Kitty, looking at the absurd thing.
"But what can I do, Kit? It's only a week till Christmas now, and I can't begin anything else for Mother. I've lots of things to finish yet."
"Here's Father," said Kitty, as she heard his voice outside; "perhaps he can fix it."
"Men don't know about fancy work," said Marjorie, but even as she spoke hope rose in her heart, for Mr. Maynard had often proved knowing in matters supposed to be outside his ken.
"Oh, Father, come in here, please; in behind the screen. You go out, King and Kitty, so there'll be room."
Those invited to leave did so, and Mr. Maynard came in and smiled at his eldest daughter's despairing face.
"What's the trouble, Mopsy midget? Oh, millinery? You don't expect me to hemstitch, do you? What's that you're making, a young sofa-cushion?"
"Don't speak so loud, Father. It's a Christmas present I'm making for
Mother, and it won't go right. If you can't help me, I don't know what
I'll do. I've tried every way, but it's always wrong side out!"
"What a hateful disposition it must have! But what is it?"
Marjorie put her lips to her father's ear, and whispered; "It's a bag; I mean it's meant to be one, for Mother to carry to sewing society. I can sew it well enough, but I can't make it get right side out!"
"Now, Mopsy, dear, you know I'd do anything in the world to help you that I possibly can; but I'm afraid this is a huckleberry above my persimmons!"
"But, Father, here's King's skatebag. Mother made it, and can't you see by that how it's to go?"
"H'm,—let me see. I suppose if I must pull you out of this slough of despond, I must. Now all these seams are turned in, and all yours are outside."
"Yes; and how can we get them inside? There's no place to turn them to."
Mr. Maynard examined both bags minutely.
"Aha!" he said at last; "do you know how they put the milk in the coconut, Marjorie?"
"No, sir."
"Well, neither do I. But I see a way to get these seams inside and let your pretty silks put their best face foremost. Have you a pair of scissors?"
"Yes, here they are."
Mr. Maynard deftly ripped a few stitches, leaving an opening of a couple of inches in one of the seams of the lining. Through this opening he carefully pulled the whole of both materials, thus reversing the whole thing. When it had all come through, he pulled and patted it smooth, and, behold! the bag was all as it should be, and there remained only the tiny opening he had ripped in the lining to be sewed up again.
"That you must cat-stitch, or whatever you call it," he said, "as neatly as you can. And it will never show, on a galloping horse on a dark night."
"Blindstitch, you mean," said Marjorie; "yes, I can do that. Oh, Father, how clever you are! How did you know how to do it?"
"Well, to be honest, I saw a similar place in the lining of the skate bag. So I concluded that was the most approved way to make bags. Can you finish it now?"
"Oh, yes; I've only to stitch a sort of casing and run a ribbon in for the strings. Thank you lots, Father dear. You always help me out. But I was afraid this was out of your line."
"It isn't exactly in my day's work, as a rule; but I'm always glad to assist a fair lady in distress. Any other orders, mademoiselle?"
"Not to-night, brave sir. But you might call in, any time you're passing."
"Suppose I should pop in when you're engaged on a token of regard and esteem for my noble self?"
"No danger! Your Christmas present is all done and put away. I had
Mother's help on that."
"Well, then it's sure to be satisfactory. Then I will bid you adieu, trusting to meet you again at dinner."
"All right," said Marjorie, who had neatly; blindstitched the little ripped place, and was now making the casing for the ribbons.
By dinner time the bag was nearly done, and she went to the table with a light heart, knowing that she could finish her mother's present that evening.
"Who is the dinner for this year?" asked Mr. Maynard, as the family sat round their own dinner table.
"Oh, the Simpsons," said Marjorie, in a tone of decision. "You know Mr.
Simpson is still in the hospital, and they're awfully poor."
It was the Maynards' habit to send, every Christmas, a generous dinner to some poor family in the town, and this year the children had decided on the Simpsons. In addition to the dinner, they always made up a box of toys, clothing, and gifts of all sorts. These were not always entirely new, but were none the less welcome for that.
"A large family, isn't it?" said Mr. Maynard.
"Loads of 'em," said King. "All ages and assorted sizes."
"Well, I'll give shoes and mittens all round, for my share. Mother, you must look out for the dinner and any necessities that they need. Children, you can make toys and candies for them! can't you?"
"Yes, indeed," said Marjorie; "we've lovely things planned. We're going to paste pictures on wood, and King is going to saw them up into picture-puzzles. And we're going to make scrap books, and dress dolls, and heaps of things."
"And when are you going to take these things to them?"
"I think we'd better take them the day before Christmas," said Mrs. Maynard. "Then Mrs. Simpson can prepare her turkey and such things over night if she wants to. I'm sure she'd like it better than to have all the things come upon her suddenly on Christmas morning."
"Yes, that's true," said Mr. Maynard. "And then we must find something to amuse ourselves all day Christmas."
"I rather guess we can!" said King. "Well have our own tree Christmas morning, and Grandma and Uncle Steve are coming, and if there's snow, we'll have a sleigh-ride, and if there's ice, we'll have skating,—oh, I just love Christmas!"
"So do I," said Marjorie. "And we'll have greens all over the house, and wreaths tied with red ribbon,—"
"And mince pie and ice cream, both!" interrupted Kitty; "oh, won't it be gorgeous!"
"And then no school for a whole week!" said Marjorie, rapturously. "More than a week, for Christmas is on Thursday, so New Year's Day's on Thursday, too, and we have vacation on that Friday, too."
"But Christmas and New Year's Day don't come on the same day of the week this year, Marjorie," said her father.
"They don't! Why, Father, they always do! It isn't leap year, is it?"
"Ho, Mops, leap year doesn't matter," cried King. "Of course, they always come on the same day of the week. What do you mean, Father?"
"I mean just what I say; that Christmas Day and New Year's Day do not fall on the same day of the week this year."
"Why, Daddy, you're crazy!" said Marjorie, "Isn't Christmas coming on
Thursday?"
"Yes, my child."
"Well, isn't New Year's Day the following Thursday?"
"Yes, but that's next year. New Year's Day of this year was nearly twelve months ago and was on Wednesday."
"Oh, Father, what a sell! of course I meant this winter."
"Well, you didn't say so. You said this year."
"It's a good joke," said King, thinking it over. "I'll fool the boys with it, at school."
The Maynards were a busy crowd during the short week that intervened before Christmas.
From Mr. Maynard, who was superintending plans for his own family and for many beneficiaries, down to the cook, who was making whole shelves full of marvelous dainties, everybody was hurrying and skurrying from morning till night.
The children had completed their gifts for their parents and for each other, and most of them were already tied in dainty tissue papers and holly ribbons awaiting the festal day.
Now they were making gifts for the poor family of Simpsons, and they seemed to enjoy it quite as much as when making the more costly presents for each other.
Marjorie came home from school at one o'clock, and as Mrs. Maynard had said she needn't practise her music any more until after the holidays, she had all her afternoons and the early part of the evenings to work at the Christmas things.
She was especially clever with scissors and paste, and made lovely scrap-books by cutting large double leaves of heavy brown paper. On these she pasted post-cards or other colored pictures, also little verses or stories cut from the papers. Eight of these sheets were tied together by a bright ribbon at the back, and made a scrap-book acceptable to any child. Then, Marjorie loved to dress paper dolls. She bought a dozen of the pretty ones that have movable arms and feet, and dressed them most picturesquely in crinkled paper and lace paper. She made little hats, cloaks and muffs for them, and the dainty array was a fine addition to the Simpson's box.
Kitty, too, made worsted balls for the Simpson babies, and little lace stockings, worked around with worsted, which were to be filled with candies.
With Mrs. Maynard's help, they dressed a doll for each Simpson girl, and
King sawed out a picture puzzle for each Simpson boy.
Then, a few days before Christmas they all went to work and made candies. They loved to do this, and Mrs. Maynard thought home-made confectionery more wholesome than the bought kind. So they spent one afternoon, picking out nuts and seeding raisins, and making all possible beforehand preparations, and the next day they made the candy. As they wanted enough for their own family as well as the Simpsons, the quantity, when finished, was rather appalling.
Pan after pan of cream chocolates, coconut balls, caramels, cream dates, cream nuts, and chocolate-dipped dainties of many sorts filled the shelves in the cold pantry.
And Marjorie also made some old-fashioned molasses candy with peanuts in it, because it was a favorite with Uncle Steve.
The day before Christmas the children were all allowed to stay home from school, for in the morning they were to pack the Christmas box for the Simpsons and, in the afternoon, take it to them.
CHAPTER II
A WELCOME CHRISTMAS GIFT
The day before Christmas was a busy one in the Maynard household.
The delightful breakfast that Ellen sent to the table could scarcely be eaten, so busily talking were all the members of the family.
"Come home early, won't you, Father?" said Marjorie, as Mr. Maynard rose to go away to his business. "And don't forget to bring me that big holly-box I told you about."
"As I've only thirty-seven other things to remember, I won't forget that, chickadee. Any last orders, Helen?"
"No; only those I've already told you. Come home as early as you can, for there's lots to be done, and you know Steve and Grandma will arrive at six."
Away went Mr. Maynard, and then the children scattered to attend to their various duties.
Both James the gardener and Thomas the coachman were handy men of all work, and, superintended by Mrs. Maynard, they packed the more substantial portions of the Simpson's Christmas donations.
It took several large baskets to hold the dinner, for there was a big, fat turkey, a huge roast of beef, and also sausages and vegetables of many sorts.
Then other baskets held bread and pie and cake, and cranberry jelly and celery, and all the good things that go to make up a Christmassy sort of a feast. Another basket held nuts and raisins and oranges and figs, and in this was a big box of the candies the children had made. The baskets were all decked with evergreen and holly, and made an imposing looking row.
Meantime King and Midget and Kitty were packing into boxes the toys and pretty trifles that they had made or bought. They added many books and games of their own, which, though not quite new, were as good as new.
A barrel was packed full of clothing, mostly outgrown by the Maynard children, but containing, also, new warm caps, wraps and underwear for the little Simpsons.
Well, all the things together made a fair wagon-load, and when Mr. Maynard returned home about two o'clock that afternoon, he saw the well-filled and evergreen trimmed wagon on the drive, only waiting for his coming to have the horse put to its shafts.
"Hello, Maynard maids and men!" he cried, as he came in, laden with bundles, and found the children bustling about, getting ready to go.
"Oh, Father," exclaimed Kitty, "you do look so Santa Claus-y! What's in all those packages?"
"Mostly surprises for you to-morrow, Miss Curiosity; so you can scarcely expect to see in them now."
"I do love a bundly Christmas," said Marjorie. "I think half the fun is tying things up with holly ribbons, and sticking sprigs of holly in the knots."
"Well, are we all aboard now for the Simpsons?" asked her father, as he deposited his burdens in safe places.
"Yes, we'll get our hats, and start at once; come on, Kitty," and
Marjorie danced away, drawing her slower sister along with her.
Nurse Nannie soon had little Rosamond ready, and the tot looked like a big snowball in her fleecy white coat and hood, and white leggings.
"Me go to Simpson's," she cried, in great excitement, and then Mrs. Maynard appeared, and they all crowded into the roomy station-wagon that could be made, at a pinch, to hold them all. James drove them, and Thomas followed with the wagon-load of gifts.
The visit was a total surprise to the Simpson family, and when the Maynards knocked vigorously at the shaky old door, half a dozen little faces looked wonderingly from the windows.
"What is it?" said Mrs. Simpson, coming to the door, with a baby in her arms, and other small children clinging to her dress.
"Merry Christmas!" cried Midget and King, who were ahead of the others. But the cry of "Merry Christmas" was repeated by all the Maynards, until an answering smile appeared on the faces of the Simpson family and most of them spoke up with a "Merry Christmas to you, too."
"We've brought you some Christmas cheer," said Mr. Maynard, as the whole six of them went in, thereby greatly crowding the small room where they were received. "Mr. Simpson is not well, yet, I understand."
"No, sir," said Mrs. Simpson. "They do say he'll be in the hospital for a month yet, and it's all I can do to keep the youngsters alive, let alone gettin' Christmas fixin's for 'em."
"That's what we thought," said Mr. Maynard, pleasantly; "and so my wife and children are bringing you some goodies to make a real Christmas feast for your little ones."
"Lord bless you, sir," said Mrs. Simpson, as the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't know how much I was missin' all the Christmas feelin', till I see you all come along, with your 'Merry Christmas,' and your evergreen trimmin's."
"Yes," said Mrs. Maynard, gently, "at this season, we should all have the 'Christmas feeling,' and though I'm sorry your husband can't be with you, I hope you and the children will have a happy day."
"What you got for us?" whispered a little Simpson, who was patting Mrs. Maynard's muff.
"Well, we'll soon show you." said Mr. Maynard, overhearing the child.
Then he opened the door and bade his two men bring in the things.
So James and Thomas brought them in, box after box and basket after basket, until the Simpsons were well-nigh speechless at the sight.
"How kin we pay for it, Ma?" said one of the boys, who was getting old enough to know what lack of funds meant.
"You're not to pay for it, my boy," said Mr. Maynard, "except by having a jolly, happy day to-morrow, and enjoying all the good things you find in these baskets." Then the Maynard children unwrapped some of the pretty things they had made, and gave them to the little Simpsons.
One little girl of about six received a doll with a cry of rapture, and held it close to her, as if she had never had a doll before. Then suddenly she said, "No, I'll give it to sister, she never had a doll. I did have one once, but a bad boy stole it."
"You're an unselfish little dear," cried Marjorie; "and here's another doll for you. There's one for each of you girls."
As there were four girls, this caused four outbursts of joy, and when Marjorie and Kitty saw the way the little girls loved the dollies, they felt more than repaid for the trouble it had been to dress them. The boys, too, were delighted with their gifts. Mr. Maynard had brought real boys' toys for them, such as small tool chests, and mechanical contrivances, not to mention trumpets and drums. And, indeed, the last-named ones needed no mention, for they were at once put to use and spoke for themselves.
"Land sakes, children! stop that hullabaloo-lam!" exclaimed Mrs. Simpson. "How can I thank these kind people if you keep up that noise! Indeed, I can't thank you, anyway," she added, as the drums were quiet for a moment. "It's so kind of you,—and so unexpected. We had almost nothing for,—for to-morrow's dinner, and I didn't know which way to turn."
Overcome by her emotion, Mrs. Simpson buried her face in her apron, but as Mrs. Maynard touched her shoulder and spoke to her gently, she looked up, smiling through her tears.
"I can't rightly thank you, ma'am," she went on, "but the Lord will bless you for your goodness. I'm to see Mr. Simpson for a few moments to-morrow, and when I tell him what you've done for us he'll have the happiest Christmas of us all, though his sufferings is awful. But he was heartsick because of our poor Christmas here at home, and the news will cure him of that, anyway."
"I put in some jelly and grapes especially for him," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling, though there were tears in her own eyes. "So you take them to him, and give him Christmas greetings from us. And now we must go, and you can begin at once to make ready your feast."
"Oh, yes, ma'am. And may all Christmas blessing's light on you and yours."
"Merry Christmas!" cried all the Maynards as they trooped out, and the good wish was echoed by the happy Simpsons.
"My!" said King, "it makes a fellow feel sober to see people as poor as that!"
"It does, my boy," said his father; "and it's a pleasure to help those who are truly worthy and deserving. Simpson is an honest, hard-working man, and I think we must keep an eye on the family until he's about again. And now, my hearties, we've done all we can for them for the present; so let's turn our attention to the celebration of the Maynard's Christmastide. Who wants to go to the station with me to meet Grandma and Uncle Steve?"
"I!" declared the four children, as with one voice.
"Yes, but you can't all go; and, too, there must be some of the nicest ones at home to greet the travellers as they enter. I think I'll decide the question myself. I'll take Kitty and King with me, and I'll leave my eldest and youngest daughters at home with Motherdy to receive the guests when they come."
Mr. Maynard's word was always law, and though Marjorie wanted to go, she thought, too, it would be fun to be at home and receive them when they come.
So they all separated as agreed, and Mrs. Maynard said they must make haste to get dressed for the company.
Marjorie wore a light green cashmere, with a white embroidered guimpe, which was one of her favorite frocks. Her hair was tied with big white bows, and a sprig of holly was tucked in at one side.
She flew down to the living-room, to find baby Rosamond and her mother already there. Rosy Posy was a Christmas baby indeed, all in white, with holly ribbons tying up her curls, and a holly sprig tied in the bow. The whole house was decorated with ropes and loops of evergreen, and stars and wreaths, with big red bows on them, were in the windows and over the doorways.
The delicious fragrance of the evergreens pervaded the house, and the wood fires burned cheerily. Mrs. Maynard, in her pretty rose-colored house gown, looked about with the satisfied feeling that everything was in readiness, and nothing had been forgotten.
At last a commotion was heard at the door, and Marjorie flew to open it.
They all seemed to come in at once, and after an embrace from Grandma, Marjorie felt herself lifted up in Uncle Steve's strong arms.
"That's the last time, Midget," he said as he set her down again. "There's too much of you for me to toss about as I used to. My! what a big girl you are!"
"Toss me, Uncle Teve," said Rosy Posy, and she was immediately swung to Uncle Steve's shoulder.
"You're only a bit of thistle-down. I could toss you up in the sky, and you could sit on the edge of a star. How would you like that?"
"I'd ravver stay here," said Rosy Posy, nestling contentedly on her perch. "'Sides, I must be here for Kismus to-morrow."
"Oh, is Christmas to-morrow? How could I have forgotten that?"
"You didn't forget it, Uncle Steve," said Kitty, "for I see bundles sticking out of every one of your pockets!"
"Bless my soul! How odd! Santa Claus must have tucked them in, as I came through his street. Well, I'll put them away until to-morrow. They're of no use to-night."
"Put them in here, Steve," said Mrs. Maynard, opening a cupboard door, for there was a possibility that the good-natured gentleman might be persuaded to unwrap them at once.
Meantime Grandma was reviewing the small Maynards. Marjorie she had seen in the summer, but the others had been absent a longer time.
"You've all grown," she said, "but I do believe I like you just as well bigger."
"Good for you, Grandma!" cried King. "'Most everybody says, 'Why, how you've grown!' as if we had done something wrong."
"No, the more there is of my grandchildren, the more I have to love, so go right on growing. Marjorie, Molly and Stella sent love to you, and they also sent some little gifts which I will give you to-morrow."
The Maynards did not follow the custom of having their tree on Christmas eve.
Mrs. Maynard thought it unwise, because the children often became so excited over their gifts and their frolic that it was difficult for them to settle down to sleep until "all hours."
So it was the rule to go to bed rather early on Christmas eve, and have a long happy day to follow.
But the dinner, on the night before Christmas, always assumed a little of the coming festivities. On this occasion, the table was decked with holly and flowers, and the dishes were a little more elaborate and festive than usual.
"Ice cream, oh, goody!" exclaimed Kitty, as dessert appeared. Kitty's fondness for ice cream was a family joke, but all welcomed the little Santa Clauses made of orange ice, and carrying trees of pistache cream.
After dinner a game of romps was allowed.
Mrs. Maynard, Grandma and Baby Rosy did not join in this, but went off by themselves, leaving the living-room to the more enthusiastic rompers.
"Fox and Geese" was a favorite game, and though there were scarcely enough of them to play it properly, yet that made it all the more fun, and Uncle Steve and Mr. Maynard seemed to be little, if any, older than Kingdon, as they scrambled about in the frolic. Then Kitty begged for just one round of Puss in the Corner.
Kingdon and Midget thought this rather a baby game, but they willingly deferred to Kitty's choice, and the grown up men were such foolish, funny pussies in their corners that everybody fell a-laughing, and the game broke up because they were too exhausted to play any more.
"Now to quiet down pleasantly, and then ho, for bed," said Mr. Maynard. So when they had recovered their breath, Mrs. Maynard and Grandma returned, Rosy Posy having already gone to her little crib. Mrs. Maynard sat at the piano, and they all gathered round and sang Christmas carols.
The children had clear, true voices, and the grown-ups sang really well, so it was sweet Christmas music that they made. They sang many of the old English carols, for the children had sung them every Christmas eve since they were old enough, and they knew them well.
Grandma loved to hear the music, and after it was over the three children were kindly but firmly requested to retire.
"We hate awfully to have you go, dear friends," said Mr. Maynard. "We shall be desolate, indeed, without your merry faces, but the time is ripe. It's nine o'clock, and Christmas morning comes apace. So flee, skip, skiddoo, vamoose, and exit! Hang up your stockings, and perhaps Santa Claus may observe them. But hasten, for I daresay he's already on his rounds."
Laughing at their father's nonsense, the children rather reluctantly backed out of the room and dawdled upstairs.
But there was still the fun of hanging up their stockings, and then, after that nothing more but to hurry to get to sleep that Christmas might come sooner.
Rosy Posy's tiny socks were already in place, and soon three more pairs of long, lank stockings were dangling emptily, and then, in a jiffy the Maynard children were all asleep, and Christmas Day was silently drawing nearer and nearer.
