A simple story, of which many a duplicate could be found in this country of ours.  In the course of the dozen years or so of its unravelling the grandmother had died, and Peter had become, to all intents and purposes, a member of Uncle Tom’s family.  A place was set for him at Sunday dinner; and, if he did not appear, at Sunday tea.  Sometimes at both.  And here he was, as usual, on Christmas morning, his arms so full that he had had to push open the gate with his foot.

“Well, well, well, well!” he said, stopping short on the doorstep and surveying our velvet-clad princess, “I’ve come to the wrong house.”

The princess stuck her finger into her cheek.

“Don’t be silly, Peter!” she said; and Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” he replied, edging sidewise in at the door and depositing his parcels on the mahogany horsehair sofa.  He chose one, and seized the princess—­velvet coat and all!—­in his arms and kissed her.  When he released her, there remained in her hand a morocco-bound diary, marked with her monogram, and destined to contain high matters.

“How could you know what I wanted, Peter?” she exclaimed, after she had divested it of the tissue paper, holly, and red ribbon in which he had so carefully wrapped it.  For it is a royal trait to thank with the same graciousness and warmth the donors of the humblest and the greatest offerings.

There was a paper-knife for Uncle Tom, and a workbasket for Aunt Mary, and a dress apiece for Catherine, Bridget, and Mary Ann, none of whom Peter ever forgot.  Although the smoke was even at that period beginning to creep westward, the sun poured through the lace curtains into the little dining-room and danced on the silver coffeepot as Aunt Mary poured out Peter’s cup, and the blue china breakfast plates were bluer than ever because it was Christmas.  The humblest of familiar articles took on the air of a present.  And after breakfast, while Aunt Mary occupied herself with that immemorial institution,—­which was to lure hitherwards so many prominent citizens of St. Louis during the day,—­eggnogg, Peter surveyed the offerings which transformed the sitting-room.  The table had been pushed back against the bookcases, the chairs knew not their time-honoured places, and white paper and red ribbon littered the floor.  Uncle Tom, relegated to a corner, pretended to read his newspaper, while Honora flitted from Peter’s knees to his, or sat cross-legged on the hearth-rug investigating a bottomless stocking.

“What in the world are we going to do with all these things?” said Peter.

“We?” cried Honora.

“When we get married, I mean,” said Peter, smiling at Uncle Tom.  “Let’s see!” and he began counting on his fingers, which were long but very strong—­so strong that Honora could never loosen even one of them when they gripped her.  “One—­two—­three—­eight Christmases before you are twenty-one.  We’ll have enough things to set us up in housekeeping.  Or perhaps you’d rather get married when you are eighteen?”