“Nobody.  Nothing,” said Anne, turning her reddened eyes from the light.  “Perhaps my eyes are sore.  Maybe the snow hurts them.”

“Oh, ho!  You just ought ‘a’ been with me,” said Dunlop, strutting in.  “I hanged a wreath in the parlor window.  I did it all to myself.  Martha she just held it straight and mother tied the string.  Martha said I bothered.  Martha don’t know.  Mother says I’m her little man.—­Come along, you old Santa Claus!  Hurry!  Or I’ll come up that chimney and take all your toys and your reindeers, too,” he shouted up the chimney.

“Don’t, ’Lop,” remonstrated Arthur who was sleepily rubbing his eyes and opening his mouth, bird-like, for spoonfuls of bread and milk.  “Don’t talk that way.  It’s ugly.  And Santa C’aus’ll get mad and not come.  Or he’ll bring you switches.”

“Mother won’t let him,” blustered Dunlop.  “Mother says she told him to bring me a heap of things—­a gun and a ’spress wagon and a engine that runs on a track and lots more things.—­Say, Anne, is there really truly a sure-’nough Santa Claus?  George Bryant says there isn’t not.  Tell me, Anne.  Does Santa Claus really come down the chimney?”

“You stay awake and see,” advised Anne.

“I’m going to.  I’m not going to shut—­my—­eyes—­all—­night—­long,” he said emphatically.

“Marfa, don’t put on any more coal,” begged Arthur.  “I so fwead Santa C’aus’ll get burnted.”

The Christmas saint accepted Arthur’s offering in the loving spirit in which it was made and there was a letter of thanks in the sock around which were heaped more pretty things than he had remembered he wanted.  Dunlop examined his many gifts with shrieks of delight.  His one regret was that he didn’t see Santa Claus—­if there was a Santa Claus.  He knew he didn’t go to sleep last night—­but he didn’t remember anything till Martha was kindling the fire this morning.

By Anne’s breakfast plate were several dainty packages,—­a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy, a box of dominoes, an embroidered handkerchief, a box of chocolate creams.  And Martha gave Honey-Sweet pink-flowered muslin for a new dress.

Breakfast passed in wild confusion.  Martha was imploring Dunlop not to eat any more candy or raisins or oranges or figs or nuts.  “You’ll be sick,” she said.  “And goodness knows, Master Dunlop, you’re hard enough to live with best of times when you’re well.  Do—­don’t blow your horn, Master Dunlop—­or beat your drum—­or toot your engine—­your poor mamma has such a headache.”

Mrs. Marshall protested, however, that the dear child must be allowed to enjoy his Christmas.  “He is so high-strung,” she said, “not like ordinary children.  He can’t be controlled like them.  I can’t bear to cross him and break his spirit.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Before the early dinner at the ‘Home,’ Miss Farlow assembled the girls and gave them a Christmas talk.  Christmas, she reminded them, is the time for generous thoughts, for kindly memories, for opening our eyes to the needs of others and opening our hands to aid those needs.  There is no one so poor, so lonely, that he cannot find some one more needy that he may help.