ed
on him to lay plots for a Christmas-tree, for the delectation of Dickie
on his sofa, and likewise of Margaret Rivers, and of the elite of the
Cocksmoor schools. He gave in to it heartily, and on the appointed day
worked with great spirit at the arrangements in the dining-room, where
Gertrude, favoured by the captive state of the little boy, conducted
her preparations, relegating the family meals to the schoolroom.

This tree was made the occasion for furnishing Leonard with all the
little appliances of personal property that had been swept away from
him; and, after all, he was the most delighted of the party. The small
Charlie Cheviot had to be carried off shrieking; Margaret Rivers was
critical; even Cocksmoor was experienced in Christmas-trees; and
Dickie, when placed in the best situation, and asked if such trees grew
in New Zealand, made answer that he helped mamma to make one every year
for the Maori children. It was very kind in Aunt Daisy, he added, with
unfailing courtesy; but he was too zealous for his colony to be
dazzled--too utilitarian to be much gratified by any of his gifts,
excepting a knife of perilous excellence, which Aubrey, in contempt of
Stoneborough productions, had sacrificed from his own pocket at the
last moment.

Leonard and Dickie together were in a state of great delight at the
little packets handed to the former; studs, purse, pencil-case, writing
materials; from Hector Ernescliffe, a watch, with the entreaty that his
gifts might not be regarded as unlucky; from Ethel, a photographic
book, with the cartes of his own family, whose old negatives had been
hunted up for the purpose; also a recent one of Dr. May with his
grandson on his knee, the duplicate of which was gone to New Zealand,
with the Doctor's inscription, 'The modern Cyropaedia, Astyages
confounded.' There was Richard, very good, young and pretty; there was
Ethel, exactly like the Doctor, 'only more so;' there was Gertrude,
like nobody, not even herself, and her brothers much in the same
predicament, there was the latest of Mr. Rivers's many likenesses, with
the cockatoo on his wrist, and there was the least truculent and
witchlike of the numerous attempts on Flora; there was Mrs. Cheviot,
broad-faced and smiling over her son, and Mr. and Mrs. Ernescliffe,
pinioning the limbs of their offspring, as in preparation for a family
holocaust; there was Dickie's mamma, unspoilable in her loveliness even
by photography, and his p