ms of fire on
the hearth, and the boys immediately set themselves to work burying
potatoes in the ashes, with the hot hearth-stone beneath. "For of course
you are going to cook in the sitting-room, Annet," they said. "We made
all ready for you there; and, besides, this fire is out."

"You could easily have kept it up," said the sister, smiling. "However,
as it is Christmas-eve, I will let you have your way."

The boys alertly loaded themselves with the articles she gave them, and
went hopping back into the sitting-room. They scorned to walk on
Christmas-eve; the thing was to hop, and yet carry every dish steadily.
They arranged the table, still in a sort of dancing step, and sang
together in their shrill childish voices a tune of their own, without
any words but "Ho! ho! ho!" Tita, in her corner, kept watch over the
proceedings, and inhaled the aroma of the coffee with indolent
anticipation. The tin pot stood on the hearth near her, surrounded by
coals; it was a battered old coffee-pot, grimy as a camp-kettle, but
dear to all the household, and their principal comforter when the
weather was bitter, provisions scarce, or the boys especially
troublesome. For the boys said they did not enjoy being especially
troublesome; they could not help it any more than they could help having
the measles or the whooping-cough. They needed coffee, therefore, for
the conflict, when they felt it coming on, as much as any of the
household.

Poor Anne's cooking utensils were few and old; it was hard to make
batter cakes over an open fire without the proper hanging griddle. But
she attempted it, nevertheless, and at length, with scarlet cheeks,
placed a plateful of them, brown, light, and smoking, upon the table.
"Now, Louis, run out for the potatoes; and, Tita, call father."

This one thing Tita would do; she aspired to be her father's favorite.
She went out with her noiseless step, and presently returned leading in
the tall, bent, gray-haired father, her small brown hand holding his
tightly, her dark eyes fixed upon him with a persistent steadiness, as
if determined to isolate all his attention upon herself. William Douglas
was never thoroughly at ease with his youngest daughter; she had this
habit of watching him silently, which made him uncomfortable. The boys
he understood, and made allowances for their wildness; but this girl,
with her soft still ways, perplexed and troubled him. She seemed to
embody, as it were, his own mistakes,