o go, Art," says Delia, "only I don't know do I want to
go or not.... I ... do you see ..."

"Well ... what?"

"Sure ... maybe ... how do I know will they like me or not! And me coat
all wore ... and ... and, moreover, I never got to get a right sort of a
hood for the child ... or a cloak...."

"Och, what at all, girl dear!" says Art, that was so excited at the
thoughts of getting home that nothing was a trouble to him; "not like
you! What else would they do! And the child ... well, now, isn't it well
we told them nothing about him, the way he'll be a surprise to them now?
The fine big fellah that he is! Sure it would be a sin to go put any
clothes on him at all, hiding the brave big legs of him!"

Delia had to laugh at that; and then Art went out and bought a grand
sheet of note-paper with robins and red berries and "The Season's
Compliments" at the top of it. And Delia wrote the letter upon this,
because she could write real neat and nice. Art told her every word to
say.

"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER," it began, "I have pleasure in taking up
my pen to rite yous those few lines hopping they find yous in good
health as they leave us at this present thank you and God. I would
wish my love and best wishes to ..." and there were so many to be
remembered that Art told Delia to put in "all inquiring friends,"
and even shortened like that, the list hardly left room for saying,
"and we will go home for the Christmas and is obliged for the
kindness of asking and we will go by the last train Christmas Eve
and let yous meet that with Ling-gerin' Death and the cart and
we're bringing a Christmas box wid us that yous will be rejoiced to
see so I will end those few lines from your

"SON AND NEW DAUGHTER."

When that letter was finished and posted, Delia made no more of an
objection to going, only did the best she could, washing and mending her
own little things and the baby's. But let her do her best and they were
poor-looking little bits of duds! And many's the time, when Art was
away, that she'd cry, and wish to herself that there was no such a place
as Ardenoo on the face of this earthly world. But what could she do,
only please Art!

Well, the very evening before they were to start for Ardenoo, didn't Art
come home to her in great humour. "Look at here, Delia!" says he, with a
big laugh; "see the fine handful of money," and he