ENCE-PUDDING_

IT was Christmas, nearly a year after Mother died. I cannot write about
Mother--but I will just say one thing. If she had only been away for a
little while, and not for always, we shouldn't have been so keen on
having a Christmas. I didn't understand this then, but I am much older
now, and I think it was just because everything was so different and
horrid we felt we _must_ do something; and perhaps we were not
particular enough _what_. Things make you much more unhappy when you
loaf about than when you are doing events.

Father had to go away just about Christmas. He had heard that his wicked
partner, who ran away with his money, was in France, and he thought he
could catch him, but really he was in Spain, where catching criminals is
never practised. We did not know this till afterwards.

Before Father went away he took Dora and Oswald into his study, and
said--

"I'm awfully sorry I've got to go away, but it is very serious business,
and I must go. You'll be good while I'm away, kiddies, won't you?"

We promised faithfully. Then he said--

"There are reasons--you wouldn't understand if I tried to tell you--but
you can't have much of a Christmas this year. But I've told Matilda to
make you a good plain pudding. Perhaps next Christmas will be brighter."

(It was; for the next Christmas saw us the affluent nephews and nieces
of an Indian uncle--but that is quite another story, as good old Kipling
says.)

When Father had been seen off at Lewisham Station with his bags, and a
plaid rug in a strap, we came home again, and it was horrid. There were
papers and things littered all over his room where he had packed. We
tidied the room up--it was the only thing we could do for him. It was
Dicky who accidentally broke his shaving-glass, and H.O. made a paper
boat out of a letter we found out afterwards Father particularly wanted
to keep. This took us some time, and when we went into the nursery the
fire was black out, and we could not get it alight again, even with the
whole _Daily Chronicle_. Matilda, who was our general then, was out, as
well as the fire, so we went and sat in the kitchen. There is always a
good fire in kitchens. The kitchen hearthrug was not nice to sit on, so
we spread newspapers on it.

It was sitting in the kitchen, I think, that brought to our minds my
Father's parting words--about the pudding, I mean.

Oswald said, "Father said we couldn't have much of a Christmas for
secret re