thrill the delicious bulginess of the stocking, gripped in the darkness, gave one.
I think they would miss me a little at home. I know Mother would often say, "I wonder what Olivia is doing now!"
And what kind of Christmas had you? A very festive one, I hope.
Very many thanks for the book you sent me. You couldn't possibly have given me anything I like better. Somehow, I have never possessed a copy of A Child's Garden of Verses, and this one, so exquisitely, specially bound, will be a great treasure. I like, too, your reason for choosing it. It is nice of you to like my childish reminiscences, but it is rash to say you wish you had known us then. Looking at us now, so quiet, so well-behaved, such ornaments to society, you would be surprised what villains we once were—at least on week-days! We had what R. L. S. calls a "covenanting childhood." Looking back, it seems to me that our childhood was a queer mixture of Calvinism and fairy tales. Calvinism, even now, I associate with ham and eggs—I suppose because Sabbath morning was the only time we ever tasted that delicacy. Between bustling Saturday night, when we wistfully watched our toys being locked away, and cheery Monday morning,
