ives.
Certainly it was a merry one, and Aunt Cyrilla's cooking was never
more appreciated; indeed, the bones of the chicken and the pot of
preserves were all that was left. They could not eat the preserves
because they had no spoons, so Aunt Cyrilla gave them to the little
mother.

When all was over, a hearty vote of thanks was passed to Aunt Cyrilla
and her basket. The sealskin lady wanted to know how she made her
pound cake, and the khaki boy asked for her receipt for jelly cookies.
And when two hours later the conductor came in and said the
snowploughs had got along and they'd soon be starting, they all
wondered if it could really be less than twenty-four hours since they
met.

"I feel as if I'd been campaigning with you all my life," said the
khaki boy.

At the next station they all parted. The little mother and the
children had to take the next train back home. The minister stayed
there, and the khaki boy and the sealskin lady changed trains. The
sealskin lady shook Aunt Cyrilla's hand. She no longer looked
discontented or cross.

"This has been the pleasantest Christmas I have ever spent," she said
heartily. "I shall never forget that wonderful basket of yours. The
little shop girl is going home with me. I've promised her a place in
my husband's store."

When Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose reached Pembroke there was nobody to
meet them because everyone had given up expecting them. It was not far
from the station to Edward's house and Aunt Cyrilla elected to walk.

"I'll carry the basket," said Lucy Rose.

Aunt Cyrilla relinquished it with a smile. Lucy Rose smiled too.

"It's a blessed old basket," said the latter, "and I love it. Please
forget all the silly things I ever said about it, Aunt C'rilla."

Davenport's Story

It was a rainy afternoon, and we had been passing the time by telling
ghost stories. That is a very good sort of thing for a rainy
afternoon, and it is a much better time than after night. If you tell
ghost stories after dark they are apt to make you nervous, whether you
own up to it or not, and you sneak home and dodge upstairs in mortal
terror, and undress with your back to the wall, so that you can't
fancy there is anything behind you.

We had each told a story, and had had the usual assortment of
mysterious noises and death warnings and sheeted spectres and so on,
down through the whole catalogue of horrors--enough to satisfy any
reasonable ghost-taster. But Jack, as usual,