t sleep in the pieces. Come along, Child of Doom!"

And with many hearty greetings, and promises to meet the next day, the
friends separated, the boys saying good-night, and clattering off down
the stairs like a regiment of horse.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHRISTMASING.

THE next day seemed to be largely spent in running to and fro between
the two houses. Kitty and Willy were at Braeside before breakfast, eager
to embrace their dear Mrs. Grahame and Hilda, and full of wonderful
tales of school and play. Then, as soon as Hildegarde had finished
breakfast, she must go back with them to greet Mrs. Merryweather, and
tell her how delighted she was at their coming, and hear a more detailed
account of the girls' movements. Mrs. Merryweather was sitting at her
desk, with a pile of papers before her, and books heaped as high as her
head on every side.

"My dear," she said, after greeting Hildegarde most affectionately, "I
am just looking for the girls' letter. It came this morning, and I put
it somewhere,--in quite a safe place, as I knew the boys would want to
see it, and then I meant to send it on to your father,--I mean to their
father, of course. Here it--oh, no! that is an old one! Now, this is
really unfortunate, for I was to send something to Gertrude, and I
cannot remember what it was. Dear me! I am really too--would you mind
saying over a few things, Hildegarde, that she would be likely to want?
Perhaps it will come back to me; and I can keep on looking all the
while, not to lose time."

Much amused, Hildegarde began to suggest,--"Boots, hat, muff,
handkerchiefs, gloves,"--but at each article named Mrs. Merryweather
shook her head, and sighed as she sorted papers.

"No, dear, no! Thank you just as much; but it was none of those. This
only shows, dear Hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being
unmethodical. I have no manner of doubt that I have wasted at least ten
good years of life in looking for things. My sister-in-law, now, could
find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's
hesitation. It is a gift! I trust you cultivate--now, you see, I may
spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when I might--what
amuses you, my dear?"

For Hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun.

"Dear Mrs. Merryweather,--I know you will excuse me,--but is not that
the letter, pinned to your dress? It looks like Gertrude's handwriting."

Mrs. Merryweather looked down, and gave