Now there came, warming the frosty heart of December, that delightful atmosphere of mystery and expectation which forms one pleasure of the great Yule-tide festival. The Big Brick House seemed particularly full of this happy spirit of the season. There were many mysterious shopping excursions, and much whispering in corners,—a thing not usual in this united family. Jackie showed a sudden and severe self-denial in the matter of sticks of pure chocolate, and was soon, therefore, able to proudly flourish a purse containing, he told his mother, "a dollar all but eighty-five cents," saved toward buying his presents for the family. He also spent much time at a little table in his own room, cutting out pictures and pasting them into a scrap-book for a little lame boy of his acquaintance.

Mrs. Merrithew and Kathie had each, besides innumerable other matters, a water-colour painting on hand. Each picture, strange to say, was of a house. Mrs. Merrithew's, the Big Brick House itself, with its trees and vines, was clearly intended for Daddy; but for whom, the children wondered, was Aunt Kathie's? It was a spirited little view of the old stone house on Saunder's Island; not so pretty a subject as Mrs. Merrithew's, but set in such a delicate atmosphere of early morning light that even the sombre gray of the stone seemed etherialized and made poetic. While Marjorie and Dora wondered for whom it was meant, Jackie promptly inquired,—but she, his dear Aunt Kathie, who had never refused to answer question of his before, only laughed and shook her head, and said that every one had secrets at Christmas-time.

Marjorie and Dora did not, as was their wont, spend all of their time together, for each was making a present for the other. Marjorie was working hard over a portfolio, which she knew was one of the things Dora wanted. She had carefully constructed and joined the stiff cardboard covers, and plentifully provided them with blotting-paper, and now she was embroidering the linen cover with autumnal maple-leaves in Dora's favourite colour, a rich, vivid red. As for Dora, though she had no love for needlework, she was laboriously making a cushion of soft, old-blue felt for Marjorie's cosey-corner, working it with a griffin pattern in golden-brown silks. Marjorie had a particular fancy for griffins,—partly, perhaps, because a griffin was the chief feature of the family crest.

As the long-looked-for day drew nearer, there was other work to do, almost the pleasantest Christmas work of all, Dora thought,—the making wreaths out of fir and hemlock and fragrant spruce. They worked two or three hours of each day at the decorations for the beautiful little parish church which they all attended, and which, being very small, was much easier than the cathedral or the other large churches to transform into a sweet-smelling tabernacle of green. Then they trimmed the Big Brick House almost from attic to cellar. The drawing-rooms were hung with heavy wreaths, with bunches of red cranberries here and there, making a beautiful contrast to the green. In the other rooms there were boughs over every picture, and autumn leaves, ferns, and dried grasses here and there. Mr. Merrithew was sure to buy some holly and mistletoe at the florist's on Christmas Eve, so places of honour were reserved for these two plants, which have become so closely entwined with all our thoughts of Christmas and its festivities. The holly would adorn the old oil-painting of Mrs. Merrithew's great-aunt, Lady Loveday Gostwycke, which hung over the mantelpiece in the front drawing-room. As for the pearly white berries of the mistletoe, they were to hang from the chandelier in the hall, where people might be expected forgetfully to pass beneath them. Jackie, who was very useful in breaking twigs for the wreath-making, begged a few fine wreaths as a reward, and carried them off to decorate little lame Philip's room. These lengths of aromatic greenery gave the greatest pleasure to the invalid, and scarcely less to his mother, who spent the greater part of her time in that one room.

Besides all these pleasant doings, there were great things going on in the kitchen. Such baking and steaming and frying as Debby revelled in! Such spicy and savoury odours as pervaded the house when the kitchen door was opened! Marjorie and Dora liked to help, whenever Debby would let them, with these proceedings. It was great fun to shred citron and turn the raisin-stoner, and help chop the mince-meat, in the big kitchen, with its shining tins, and general air of comfort. Jackie liked to take a share in the cooking, too, and as he was Deborah's pet, he generally got the wherewithal to make a tiny cake or pudding of his own. When it came to the making of the big plum pudding, all the family by turns had to stir it, according to a time-honoured institution. Then Mr. Merrithew would make his expected contribution to its ingredients,—five shining five-cent pieces, to be stirred through the mixture and left to form an element of special interest to the children at the Christmas dinner. Besides this big pudding, there were always three or four smaller ones (without any silver plums, but very rich and good), for distribution among some of Mrs. Merrithew's protÉgÉs.

On Christmas day all the old customs were faithfully observed. It was the rule that whoever woke first in the morning should call the others, and on this occasion it was Jackie who, as the great clock in the hall struck six, came running from room to room in his moccasin slippers and little blue dressing-gown, shouting "Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas," at the top of his voice.

Every one tumbled out of bed, as in duty bound, and soon a wrappered and slippered group, all exchanging Christmas wishes, met in Mrs. Merrithew's den. Here a fire glowed in the grate, and here, too, mysterious and delightful, hung a long row of very fat white pillow-cases! These were hung by long cords from hooks on the curtain-pole. Each pillow-case bore a paper with the name of its owner written on it in large letters, and they were arranged in order of age, from Jackie up to Mr. Merrithew. This had been the invariable method of giving the Christmas presents in this particular family for as long as any of them could remember.

Armchairs and sofas were drawn near the fire, and the party grouped themselves comfortably; then Mr. Merrithew lifted down Jackie's pillow-case and laid it beside him, as he sat with his mother in the largest of the chairs. Every one looked on with intensest interest while, with shining eyes, and cheeks red with excitement, he opened his parcels, and exclaimed over their contents. Truly a fortunate little boy was Jack! There were books—the very books he wanted,—games, a top, the dearest little snow-shoes, a great box of blocks,—evidently Santa Claus knew what a tireless architect this small boy was,—a bugle, drum, and sword, a dainty cup and saucer, a picture for his room, and, too large for the pillow-case, but carefully propped beneath it, a fine sled, all painted in blue and gold and crimson, beautiful to behold!

When Jackie had looked at every one of his presents, it was Marjorie's turn, and she was just as fortunate as her brother. So it went on up the scale, till they had all enjoyed their gifts to the very last of Mr. Merrithew's, and every box of candy had been sampled. And still Aunt Kathie's picture of the little stone house had not appeared!

When at last, a merry party, they went down to breakfast, Deborah and Susan came forward with Christmas greetings, and thanks for the well-filled pillow-cases which they had found beside their beds. The dining-room in its festal array looked even cheerier than was its wont. By every plate there lay a spray of holly, to be worn during the rest of the day. The breakfast-set was a wonderful one of blue and gold, an heirloom, which was only used on very special occasions. In the centre of the table stood a large pot of white and purple hyacinths in full bloom, the fourth or fifth of Mr. Merrithew's presents that morning to his wife.

At eleven o'clock there was the beautiful Christmas service, which all the family attended, with the exception of Jackie. He was considered too young to be kept still for so long a time; so he stayed at home with Susan, trying all the new toys and having samples read aloud from each new book. Kitty Grey, decorated with a blue ribbon and a tiny gilt bell, also kept him company, and seemed to take great pleasure in knocking his block castles down with her soft silvery paws.

When the churchgoers returned there was lunch; then, for the children, a long, cosey afternoon with their presents. Mrs. Merrithew and Katherine early disappeared into the regions of the kitchen and dining-room, for the six o'clock dinner was to have several guests, and there was much to be arranged and overseen. But by half-past five the whole family was assembled in the big drawing-room, and neither Mrs. Merrithew nor Kathie looked as if they had ever seen the inside of a kitchen. Mrs. Merrithew wore her loveliest gown, a shimmering silver-gray silk with lace sleeves and fichu, and lilies-of-the-valley at her neck and in her abundant hair. As for Katherine, in her fawn-coloured dress with trimmings of yellow beads, and deep yellow roses, Jackie said she looked like a fairy lady,—and on the subject of fairies he was an authority. The little girls were in pure white, with sashes of their favourite colours, and the gold and coral necklaces which had been among their gifts; while Jackie, in his red velvet suit and broad lace collar, looked not unlike the picture of Leonard in "The Story of a Short Life."

Presently the guests began to arrive. First came Miss Bell, a second cousin of Mr. Merrithew's, and the nearest relative he had in Fredericton. She was very tall, very thin, quite on the shady side of fifty, and a little deaf. Nevertheless, she was decidedly handsome, with her white hair, bright, dark eyes, and beautifully arched brows. She was a great favourite with the children, and always carried some little surprise for them in her pocket. A little later came a widowed aunt of Mrs. Merrithew's, fair, fat, and frivolous; and a bachelor uncle, who came next in the esteem of the children to Cousin Sophia Bell. Two young normal school students, sisters, who were not able to go home for the holidays, soon swelled the party, and last, but not least, came Mr. Will Graham, looking very handsome in his evening clothes.

When they went out to dinner Jackie escorted Cousin Sophia, and Marjorie overheard him saying, in urgent tones:

"I wish that you and Uncle Bob would come and live with us,—but I don't want Aunt Fairley; she is too funny all the time!"

The Christmas dinner was much like other Christmas dinners, except that Debby's cooking was unsurpassable. After every one had tasted everything, and three of the five-cent pieces had come to light, the chairs were pushed back a little, and while nuts and raisins were being discussed, they had also catches, rounds, and choruses. Each person with any pretence to a voice was expected to give one solo at least. Jackie, who had a very sweet little voice, sang "God Save the King," with great fervour. But the favourite of the evening was the beautiful "Under the Holly Bough," with the words of which they were all familiar.

Presently, Jackie, who had been promised that he should choose his own bedtime that night, was found to be fast asleep with his head on his green-leaf dessert plate, and a bunch of raisins clasped tightly in one hand. He was tenderly carried away, undressed, and tucked into bed, without once opening an eye. As Kathie turned to leave him, she picked up one of his best-beloved new books,—"Off to Fairyland," in blue and gold covers, with daintily coloured pictures,—and laid it beside him for a pleasant waking sight the next morning. Down-stairs she found the rest of the party gathered around the fire, telling stories of Auld Lang Syne. As almost every one had been up early that morning, no very lively games seemed to appeal to them; but the children thought no game could be so interesting as these sprightly anecdotes and rose-leaf-scented romances that were being recalled and recounted to-night. "Do you remember—" Cousin Sophia would say; then would follow some entrancing memories, to which Mr. and Mrs. Merrithew, Uncle Bob, and Mrs. Fairley would contribute a running comment of "Yes, yes! she was a lovely girl!" "He never held up his head after she died!" and so on. Then Mrs. Fairley would hum an old-time waltz, and branch off into reminiscences of balls,—and of one in particular at Government House, where she had lost her satin slipper, and the governor's son had brought it to her, and called her Cinderella. She put out a satin-shod foot as she talked, and Marjorie thought that, though it certainly was tiny, it was not at all a pretty shape, and began to understand why her mother made her wear her boots so loose.

About ten, Susan brought tea and plum-cake, and when this had been disposed of, they all, according to another time-honoured custom, gathered around the piano, and sang the grand old words that unnumbered thousands of voices had sung that day: