“It’s father!”

“Fardie!  Fardie, don’t come up!”

“Father, don’t come up!”

“Father, it’s your present!”

There was hasty scurrying of feet, racing to and fro, and further shrieks.  Langshaw waited, smiling.

It was evidently a “boughten” gift, then; the last had been a water pitcher, much needed in the household.  He braced himself fondly for immense enthusiasm over this.

An expression of intense excitement was visible on each face when finally he was allowed to enter the upper room.  Mary and Baby rushed at him to clasp his leg, while his wife leaned over to kiss him as he whispered: 

“I brought out a lot of truck; it’s all in the closet in the hall.”

George, standing with his hands in his pockets, proclaimed loudly, with sparkling eyes: 

“You nearly saw your present!  It’s from mother and us.  Come here, Baby, and pull brother’s leg.  Say, father, do you like cut glass?”

“O-oh!” came in ecstatic chorus from the other two, as at a delightful joke.

“It’s a secret!” announced Baby, her yellow hair falling over one round, blue eye.

“I believe it’s a pony,” said the father.  “I’m sure I heard a pony up here!”

Shouts of renewed joy greeted the jest.

All the next day, Christmas Eve itself, whenever two or three of the family were gathered together there were secret whisperings, more scurryings, and frenzied warnings for the father not to come into the room.  In spite of himself, Langshaw began to get a little curious as to the tobacco jar or the fire shovel, or whatever should be his portion.  He not only felt resigned to not having the trout-rod, but a sort of wonder also rose in him that he had been bewitched—­even momentarily—­into thinking he could have it.  What did it matter anyway?

“It’s worth it, old girl, isn’t it?” he said cryptically as he and Clytie met once unexpectedly in the hall, and he put his arm round her.

“Yes!” answered his wife, her dark eyes lustrous.  Sometimes she didn’t look much older than little Mary.  “One thing, though, I must say:  I do hope, dear, that—­the children have been thinking so much of our present to you and saving up so for it—­I do hope, Joe, that if you are pleased you’ll show it.  So far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter; but sometimes—­when, of course, I know how pleased you really are—­you don’t show it at once to others.  That’s why I hope you’ll show it to-morrow if—­”

“Great Scott!  Clytie, let up on it!  What do you want me to do—­jump up and down and make a fool of myself?” asked her husband scornfully.  “You leave me alone!”

It was Langshaw’s firm rule, vainly protested even by his wife, that the household should have breakfast on Christmas Day before tackling the stockings—­a hurried mockery of a meal, to be sure, yet to his masculine idea a reenforcement of food for the infant stomach before the long, hurtling joy of the day.  The stockings and the piles under them were taken in order, according to age—­the youngest first and the others waiting in rapt interest and admiration until their turn arrived—­a pretty ceremony.