ad 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