breakfast, nor was it at all dispelled
when, after the meal was over, Jack brought out a lovely seal-skin cap
and pair of seal-skin gloves which he had bought as a Christmas gift for
Bessie, and a handsomely bound edition of Shakespeare for Archie, who he
knew was very fond of the poet.

Now was Grey's time, and the work-box was produced, and Bessie's face
was a study in its surprise and delight, for Christmas presents of any
value were rare with her, and the cap and the gloves were just what she
wanted, and the box was so beautiful that there were tears in her eyes
as she thanked the donors for their kindness, and asked Neil if the
gifts were not pretty.

"Yes, very," he said, inwardly cursing himself for an idiot that he,
too, had not thought to bring anything. "I never do think till it is too
late," he said to himself; "but then, I never have any spare money,
while Grey is rich and Jack is his own master;" and entrenching himself
behind these excuses he tried to seem at his ease, though he was very
far from being so.

In the course of the morning Grey managed to see Jack alone for a few
moments, and immediately broached the subject of the bed, or cot, or
crib which the latter had bespoken.

"I am afraid it will be a crib," he said, "unless you share my room with
me;" and then he told of the north chamber which he had insisted upon
taking on account of his _phthistic_, which required so much fresh air.

"Phthisic!" Jack repeated. "_You_ have the phthisic, when I know you
have climbed the Rigi and Montanvert, and half the mountains in
Switzerland! Why, you are the longest-winded fellow I ever knew."

"Still, I have the asthma so terribly that I could never sleep in Miss
Bessie's room, knowing she was freezing in that north wing," Grey said,
affecting a terrible wheeze.

"Yes, I see," Jack replied, a light beginning to dawn upon him. "I
see--and I am _tisicky_, too, and must have fresh air; so, old chap, if
you'll take me in, I'm yours."

"But you will have to smoke _cubebs_," Grey rejoined. "You remember Mrs.
Opie's 'White Lies' and the 'Potted Sprats?' My asthma has proved a
sprat, and there is a clay pipe at this moment waiting for me in the
kitchen, and pretty soon you will see me puffing like a coal-pit. Do you
suppose they will make me vomit?"

"No doubt of it; they are awful nasty, but I will be a coal-pit too if
necessary," Jack said, ready for any emergency; but this was not
required of him, and onl