_Monday the Nineteenth_

How Time takes wing for the busy! It's only six days to Christmas and
I've still my box to get off for Olga and her children. We've sent to
Peter some really charming snap-shots of the children, which Susie
took. The general effect of one, I must acknowledge, is seriously
damaged by the presence of their Mummy.

Dinky-Dunk doubts if he'll be able to get home for the holidays. But I
sent him a box, on Saturday, made up of those things which he likes
best to eat and a set of the children's pictures, nicely mounted. I've
also had Dinkie and Poppsy write a long letter to their dad, a task
which they performed with more constraint than I had anticipated. I
had my own difficulties, along the same line, for I had taken a
photograph of poor little Pee-Wee's grave with a snow-drift across one
end of it, and had written on the bottom of the mounting-card: "_We
must remember._" But as I stood studying this, before putting it in
next to Poppsy's huge Christmas-card gay with powdered mica I felt a
foolish tear or two run down my cheek. And I realized it would never
do to cloud my Dinky-Dunk's day with memories which might not be
altogether happy. So I've kept the picture of the little white-fenced
bed with the white snow-drift across its foot....

Susie is in bed with a bad cold, which she caught studying astronomy
with Gershom. Poppsy was not in the least put out when she watched me
preparing a mustard-plaster for the invalid. My daughter, I am
persuaded, has a revived faith in the operation of retributive
justice. But I hope Susie is better by the holiday. Whinnie has the
Christmas Tree hidden away in the stable, and already a number of
mysterious parcels have arrived at Casa Grande. Bud Teetzel very
gallantly sent me over a huge turkey, an eighteen-pounder, and
to-morrow I have to go into Buckhorn for my mail-order shipments. We
have decorated the house with a whole box of holly from Victoria and
I've hung a sprig of mistletoe in the living-room doorway. The
children, of course, are on tiptoe with expectation. But I can't
escape the impression that I'm merely acting a part, that I'm a
Pagliacci in petticoats. Heaven knows I clown enough; no one can
accuse me of not going through the gestures. But it seems like
fox-trotting along the deck of a sinking ship.

I stood under the mistletoe, this morning, and dared Gershom to kiss
me. He turned quite white and made for the door. But I caught him by