"You
leave me alone!"
It was Langshaw's firm rule, vainly protested even by his wife, that the
household should have breakfast on Christmas Day before tackling the
stockings--a hurried mockery of a meal, to be sure, yet to his masculine
idea a reenforcement of food for the infant stomach before the long,
hurtling joy of the day. The stockings and the piles under them were
taken in order, according to age--the youngest first and the others
waiting in rapt interest and admiration until their turn arrived--a
pretty ceremony.
In the delicious revelry of Baby's joy, as her trembling, fat little
fingers pulled forth dolls and their like, all else was forgotten until
it was Mary's turn, and then George's, and then the mother's. And then,
when he had forgotten all about it: "Now father!" There was seemingly a
breathless moment while all eyes turned to him.
"It's father's turn now; father's going to have his presents. Father,
sit down here on the sofa--it's your turn now."
There were only a blue cornucopia and an orange and a bottle of olives
in his stocking, a Christmas card from his sister Ella, a necktie from
grandmamma, and nothing, as his quick eye had noted, under it on the
floor; but now George importantly stooped down, drew a narrow package
from under the sofa and laid it beside his father, pulling off the
paper.
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