what they are going to do. I imagine there won't be any present-giving though. No presents seems to be the modern idea. By the way—you can have all our Christmas tree trimmings if you want, Mrs. Jesse. I don't believe Linda or Junior will bring their children up on Christmas trees. They won't want the trimmings."
Neither did the Harvey children know what they were going to do. The rudder to their little world seemed to be lost, with mother up-stairs sick in bed. Mother had never been sick at Christmas before. What were they going to do? They didn't know. First the little Harveys began to ask; then Elsie from New York; then Winnifred from Portland. Do? Do? Why, what could they do, with mother sick, and fear that approached consternation possessing their hearts?
"Well," grumbled father, "I'd do something, seems to me—brought up as you were. You act like heathen around here—no Thanksgiving, no Christmas—no Sundays next, I suppose. Is that the way your mother and I brought you up? You disgust me—the whole lot of you. It's about as dismal as a grave around this house lately, and I keep out of it all I can."
"But, father, we thought that you hated—"
"You thought—you thought—you thought
