“Do you mean the tree that came on you?  No one else was hurt, I hope?” and Sir Edward’s tone was a little anxious.

“She was killed dead—­quite dead and mangled, nurse said.  It was the poor little kitten, uncle, that I ran out to fetch.”

The brown eyes were swimming with tears, and Milly could not understand the smile that came to Sir Edward’s lips.

“Only a kitten.  Well, it was sad, I daresay, but there are plenty of kittens about the place.”

“But, uncle, I’ve been thinking so much about this one.  Ford says she had run away from the stable.  I expect she was going to be a prodigal kitten, perhaps, and now she’ll never run away any more.  It’s so sad about her, and I think why it is sad is because nobody cares, not even nurse.  She said she would rather it had been the kitten than me.  Poor little kitty, her mother will be missing her so to-night!  Do you think, uncle, the wind or Goliath killed her?  I think it was Goliath.  I just looked out of my window on the stairs before I came down.  The wind has stopped now, and the trees seemed to be crying and sobbing together.  I’m sure they were sorry for kitty.  I think they were tired out themselves, too, they have been so knocked about to-day.  I wish so much I had been just in time to save the dear little kitten.”

“We will not talk about her any more,” said Sir Edward cheerfully.  “Have you seen Tom Maxwell lately?”

Milly’s little tongue was only too ready to talk of him.

“He helped nurse and me to get some holly in the wood yesterday.  I have nice talks with him often.  He says he is very happy, and this will be the best Christmas he has spent in his life.  Uncle, I want to ask you something.  I’ve been thinking of it a great deal to-day, only since I was knocked down this afternoon I’ve had such a pain in my head I left off thinking.  But I’ve just remembered it now.  You see it is really Jesus Christ’s birthday to-morrow, and I was thinking I’ve been getting presents for every one in the house but Him.  Nurse has been helping me with some of them.  I’ve made nurse a kettleholder, and cook a needlebook, and I’ve bought a penknife for Ford, and a thimble for Sarah, and some handkerchiefs for Maxwell and Mrs. Maxwell, and some woolen gloves for Tommy.  And I’ve nothing—­no nothing for Him.  If I only knew something He would like.”

She paused, and a soft wistfulness came into her eyes.

“I was thinking,” she went on, “that perhaps I could put my present for Him outside the nursery window on the ledge.  And then when we are all in bed, and it is very quiet, I expect He might send an angel down to bring it up to Him.  I think He might do that, because He knows how much I want to give Him something.  But then I don’t know what to give Him.  Could you tell me, uncle?”

“I think,” said Sir Edward, gravely, “the only way you can give Him a Christmas present is to give something to the poor.  He would rather have that.  I will give you this to put in the plate to-morrow in church.”