moving content——” continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown back against the end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck seen in repose, he did indeed look remarkably comfortable.
“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly.
“No—you and I—we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our heads—or our hearts, do we?”
“We have it in common,” said he, looking at her indifferently beneath his lashes, as his head was tilted back.
Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples—then she took the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped the suet in a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed us all “Good-night”—save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by their mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while the father read, Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on. When at length the mincemeat was finished we were all out of work. Lettie helped to clear away—sat down—talked a little with effort—jumped up and said:
“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still—it’s so near Christmas—let us play at something.”
“A dance?” said Emily.
“A dance—a dance!”
He suddenly sat straight and got up:
“Come on!” he said.
He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his stocking feet, and put away the chairs. He
