We sat up last night to watch the New Year in,—Haze, Geof, Ernie, and I. The workshop was cold, and we missed the flying-machine.

“I do not believe,” declared Ernie, dejectedly, “that Resolutions do a bit of good. I have made the same four regularly for the last two years. I’ve written them out in red ink on a slip of paper, and kept them in my Bible;—and nobody seems to find me any nicer!”

“Perhaps they were not the right kind,” hazarded Geof. “A good deal depends upon what one resolves, I suppose.”

“The idea!” flashed Ernie. “I guess you did not make any better;—say my prayers, wash my teeth, love God, and the Boarders, so there!”

“Too general,” criticised Haze. “You ought to do those things whether you resolve them or not,—and it wouldn’t be especially annoying even if you didn’t. It is my opinion that no man is competent to make his own resolutions. He doesn’t know where he most needs reform. If one’s family made them for one, now, and one was pledged in advance——”

“All right,” agreed Geof. “Let’s try it. I resolve, old chap, that you hold up your head when you walk, and quit peering through your glasses like a Reuben at a County fair.”

“And take only one butter-ball at dinner,” seconded Ernie.

“And brush your coat every morning. If one isn’t handsome, one can at least be neat,” I cried.

“I’ll see myself hanged,” retorted Hazard, angrily, “before I resolve one of those things! They are childish, as well as insulting. If this meeting is going to degenerate into a travesty, I withdraw.” And he stalked haughtily from the room.

“Silly chap!” chuckled Geof. “What did he get mad at?”

“Haze must be very conceited, if he can’t stand a little friendly criticism,” agreed Ernie. “Shall we take Elizabeth next?”

“No,” I amended hastily. “I have just thought of such a good one for you, Ernie dear. Don’t wear stockings with Jacob’s ladders running up the leg. It isn’t ladylike, and you have plenty of time to darn them.”

“And stop worrying about the shape of your nose,” added Geof. “You can’t change it, you know.”

“I don’t worry,” snapped Ernie, untruthfully. “You are a pig, Geoffrey Graham! And I resolve that you learn to dance, so there!”

“Shan’t do it,” said Geof, with whom dancing is still a sore subject. “And if you are going to call names, I think it is about time for me to go home.”

“Good-night,” consented Ernie, readily.

“Good-night,” returned Geof. And he picked up his cap, and left.

“Dear me!” I remarked as the first horn sounded, and the bells began to chime their welcome to the New Year;—“what made everybody so cross to-night? I am the only person who did not get mad.”

“You are the only person who did not have a resolution made for you,” replied Ernie. “Here is one,—and you can just see how you like it! Stop being so everlastingly ready to preach, Elizabeth. I know you call it ‘sympathy,’ but it bores people.”

“Oh, Ernie!” I gasped. “Do you really mean that?”

“Well, perhaps not entirely,” admitted Ernie, with a swift return to normal lovableness. “But there is some truth in it, dear. One likes to be blue at times, and feel that it isn’t noticed. Come along to bed. I’m sorry I let Geof go without saying ‘Happy New Year,’ and I’m sorry we forgot to eat the Italian chestnuts he brought. After all, the old way of making resolutions was best.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “and pleasanter, by far!”

Then we kissed one another, and laughed, and crept down the attic stairs hand in hand;—for it isn’t often that Ernie and I come near a quarrel, and the New Year was in. I wonder what it will bring us? Oh, I do want to be good,—resolutions apart,—not “preachy,” of course,—just stronger, and more contented and happy in our lot.