“Them Roman candles wasn’t no good!” he cried.  “One of ’em busted too soon, and ’most blowed my hand off.”

“Oh, no, it didn’t, Miss Lucy!” said Mrs. Wiggs, who had hastened out to meet her.  “Them Roman candons was fine.  Billy’s hand wasn’t so bad hurt he couldn’t shoot his gum-bow shooter and break Miss Krasmier’s winder-pane.  I’ll be glad when to-morrow comes, an’ he goes back to the office!  Come right in,” she continued.  “Asia, dust off a cheer fer Miss Lucy.  That’s right; now, lemme help you off with yer things.”

“Lemme hold the muff!” cried Australia.

“No, me—­me!” shrieked Europena.

A center rush ensued, during which the muff was threatened with immediate annihilation.  The umpire interfered.

“Australia Wiggs, you go set in the corner with yer face to the wall.  Europena, come here!” She lifted the wailing little girl to her lap, and looked her sternly in the eye.  “If you don’t hush this minute, I’ll spank your doll!”

The awful threat was sufficient.  Mrs. Wiggs had long ago discovered the most effectual way of punishing Europena.

When peace was restored, Lucy looked about her.  In each window was a piece of holly tied with a bit of red calico, and on the partly cleared table she saw the remains of a real Christmas dinner.

“We had a grand dinner to-day,” said Mrs. Wiggs, following her glance.  “Mr. Bob sent the turkey; we et all we wanted, an’ got ‘nough left fer the rest of the week, countin’ hash an’ soup an’ all.  Asia says she’s goin’ to hide it, so as I can’t give no more away.  By the way, do you notice what Asia’s doin’?”

Lucy went to the window, where Asia was busily working.  This taciturn little girl, with her old, solemn face and clever fingers, was her favorite of the children.

“What are you making?” she asked, as the child dipped a brush into one of three cans which stood before her.

“She’s paintin’ a picture,” announced Mrs. Wiggs, proudly.  “Looked like she was jes’ crazy ‘bout picture painting, an’ I said, ’Well, Asia, if you have made up yer mind to be a artist, guess you’ll have to be one.’  Seems like when folks kin do pianner playin’ an’ picture paintin’ it ain’t right to let ’em wash dishes an’ clean up all the time.  So I went to a store an’ ast fer some paint to make pictures with, and they wanted seventy cents fer a little box full.  Ain’t that a mighty heap, Miss Lucy, jes’ fer plain paint, ’fore it ‘s made up into flowers an’ trees an’ things?  Well, anyway, I couldn’t git it, but I come home an’ got me three tin cans an’ took ’em ‘round to Mr. Becker’s paint-shop, an’ he poured me a little red an’ yaller an’ blue, an’ only charged me a nickel, an’ throwed in a brush.  Asia’s painted a heap with it.  I’ll show you some of her things.”

It was not necessary, for in every direction Lucy looked her eyes were greeted with specimens of Asia’s handiwork.  Across the foot-board of the bed was a spray of what might have passed for cauliflower, the tin boiler was encircled by a wreath of impressionistic roses, and on the window-pane a piece of exceedingly golden goldenrod bent in an obliging curve in order to cover the crack in the glass.