their rich aunts and uncles, who seemed to think that the
little parsonage must be a dreary place in winter, and so, to make up to
its inmates for losing all the brightness of a city winter, they sent
everything they could think of in the way of beautiful pictures,
gorgeous books, games, sugar-plums, and enough little glittering things
for two or three trees. Of course the clergyman always laid aside some
of these things for other occasions, lest the children should be
surfeited.

And so Christmas had passed happily, as usual. The school-children had
sung their carols and enjoyed their feast, the poor had been carefully
looked after and made comfortable, and there had come the usual lull
after a season of excitement. It was now the day before the first of the
new year, and the parson was writing a sermon. He was telling people
what a good time it was to try and turn over a new leaf; to be nobler,
truer, braver, than they had ever been before; to let the old year carry
away with it all selfishness, all anger, envy, and unloving thoughts;
and as he wrote, he looked out of the window at the falling snow, and
wondered where Bob and Bertha could have gone.

Dinner-time came. Aunt Ellen, mamma, and the parson sat down alone.
"Where _are_ those children?" repeated mamma.

"I do not think you need be worried, Kate," said Aunt Ellen. "Rob is so
thoughtful, he will take good care of Bertha. They have perhaps stopped
in at a neighbor's, and been coaxed to stay."

"Very likely," said the parson. And then the baby came in, crowing and
chuckling, and claiming his privileges, such as sitting in a high chair
and feeding the cat, and mamma had enough to do to keep the merry fellow
in order, or his fat little hands would have grasped all the silver, and
pulled over the glasses.

After dinner, while the parson let the baby twist his whiskers or creep
about his knees, mamma played some lovely German music, and Aunt Ellen
crocheted. The short afternoon grew dusky. Baby went off to the nursery;
the parson had lighted his cigar, and was going out for a walk, but
mamma looked so anxious that he said,

"I will go look for the children, Kate."

"Really, I think you will have to give Rob a little scolding, my dear.
He should have told us where he was going."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the parson; when just then there was a gleeful
cry--a merry chorus made up of Rob's, Bertha's, and Jip's voices, and
there they were, Bertha on the sled,