Oswald and a book of Japanese pictures for Noël, and some ivory chess men for Dicky: the castles of the chessmen are elephant-and-castles. There is a railway station called that; I never knew what it meant before. The brown paper and string parcels had boxes of games in them—and big cases of preserved fruits and things. And the shabby old newspaper parcels and the boxes had the Indian things in. I never saw so many beautiful things before. There were carved fans and silver bangles and strings of amber beads, and necklaces of uncut gems—turquoises and garnets, the Uncle said they were—and shawls and scarves of silk, and cabinets of brown and gold, and ivory boxes and silver trays, and brass things. The Uncle kept saying, "This is for you, young man," or "Little Alice will like this fan," or "Miss Dora would look well in this green silk, I think. Eh!—what?"
And Father looked on as if it was a dream, till the Uncle suddenly gave him an ivory paper-knife and a box of cigars, and said, "My old friend sent you these, Dick; he's an old friend of yours too, he says." And he winked at my Father, for H. O. and I saw him. And my Father winked back, though he has always told us not to.
