The mess created was indescribable when the horn was drawn forth.  Shavings flew everywhere.  The sawdust was like a butcher’s shop.  There were records too, some broken, all scratched.  When set going it made a noise like a cockatoo with a cold.  Decently covered with a cloth it was interned in the loft.

Next please.  One more effort and I should be one up and Aunt Emily to play.  And her turn would be Christmas.  Once she sent me five pounds at Christmas.

The diary again.  A poor hatch of anniversaries for November.  A partial eclipse of the moon, partially visible at Greenwich, was down for the 22nd.  But eclipses are too ominous.

I fell back on KING EDWARD VII., born November 9th, 1841.  Twenty-three volumes of Goodworthy’s History of England should commemorate this.  There had once been twenty-four, but the puppy ate one.

Gratitude came by return of post, and I sat down in peace to await Christmas and a cheque.

But on December 19th came another dreadful and splintery packing-case.  Desperately I gouged it open.  Out of it, through a cloud of shavings, emerged my own loathsome yellow-and-red Indian vase!  No word with it—­not a word, not a note.  Not a funeral note.

Rage overtook me.  I disinterred Aunt Emily’s own gramophone and records.  I packed the horn anyhow.  Such of the records as seemed difficult to get in I broke into small pieces and shoved in corners.  I nailed the packing-case up with the same nails and addressed it in the boldest and fiercest of characters to Aunt Emily and caught the railway-van on the rebound.  The deed was done.

I laughed “Ha, ha!” I laughed “Ho, ho!” I would teach Aunt Emily to return me my own vase.

Next morning came a letter.  As I read it perspiration burst out on my forehead.  Language the most awful burst from my lips.

And yet it was a simple letter—­from my little cousin Dolly.

“DEAR BOB,” it said,—­“I sent you a yellow-and-red vase for Christmas.  Your Aunt Emily gave it me as a wedding present.  It is not my style and must be yours, because I have seen one like it in your house.  Perhaps you collect them.  Don’t tell your Aunt, but I really couldn’t bear it.  I forgot to put any note in the box.  Happy Christmas.

“Love, DOLLY.”

And Aunt Emily would have opened my case by now.

On Christmas Day I received a letter from her which I opened with cold and clammy fingers.

She thanked me for sending back the gramophone.  She was sorry I did not care for it.  She was now sending it to a hospital for shell-shocked officers.  And she wished me a Blithe Yuletide on a penny card.  And she was very sincerely mine.

Anyone can have her for aught I care.

[Illustration:  Unsuccessful House-huntress.  “REALLY ONE SEES SO FEW OF THE SORT OF MEN WHO USED TO BUILD HOUSES.  WHY DOESN’T THE GOVERNMENT RELEASE MORE CORDUROY TROUSERS AND ENTICE THE LABOURERS BACK?”]