“You’re just in time for dinner—­I’m so glad,” laughed Miss Myrtle.  “A Christmas dinner with a whole tribe of Farrars, big and little.”

“But our baggage hasn’t come on yet,” answered Garst ruefully.  “Will Mrs. Farrar excuse our appearing in travelling rig?”

“Indeed she will!” answered for herself a fair, motherly-looking English woman, as pretty as Myrtle save for the gold-brown hair, while she came a few steps into the hall to welcome her sons’ friends.

Five minutes afterwards the Americans found themselves seated at a table garlanded with red-berried holly, trailing ivy, and pearl-eyed mistletoe, and surrounded by a round dozen of Farrars, including several youngsters whose general place was in schoolroom or nursery, but who, even to a tot of three, were promoted to dine in splendor on Christmas Day.

“Well, this is festive!” remarked Cyrus to Myrtle, who sat next to him, when, after much preparatory feasting, an English plum-pudding, wreathed, decorated, and steaming, came upon the scene.  Fluttering amid the almonds which studded its top were two wee pink-stemmed flags.  And here again, in compliment to the newly arrived guests, the “Star-Spangled Banner” kissed the English Union Jack.

“Say, Neal!” exclaimed Cyrus, his eyes keenly bright as he looked at the toy standards, “wouldn’t this sort of thing delight our friend Doc?  By the way, that reminds me, I have a package for you from him, and a message from Herb Heal too.  Herb wants to know ’when those gamy Britishers are coming out to hunt moose again?’ And Doc has sent you a little bundle of beaver-clippings.  They are from an ash-tree two feet in circumference, felled by that beaver colony which we came across near the brulee where you shot your bear and covered yourself with glory.  Doc asked you to put the wood in sight on Christmas Night, and to think of the Maine woods.”

“Think of them!” Neal ejaculated.  “Bless the dear old brick! does he think we could ever forget them and the stunning times we had in camp and on trail?”