Before Christmas found them in a panic. The Day Before found them
grimly resolved to stand siege.

On the blessed Eve they sat before their cheerless fire-front and
stared at the packages that had been pouring in all day long. The
old postman had staggered under the final load and hinted so broadly
for a Christmas present that he got one--the first breach in their
solemn resolve.

They had excepted Ulie, of course, from the embargo. But they had
been in such a flurry that they had postponed him till they forgot
him entirely. The doorbell was rung so incessantly throughout the
evening that the cook sat on the hall stairs to be handy. She piled
the packages up on the piano till they spilled off. The piano lamp
was gradually sinking beneath the encroaching tide. Presents were
brought in wagons, carriages, buggies, carts, by coachmen, gardeners,
cooks, maids, messenger boys, and children of all ages and dimensions.

On any other occasion Mrs. Budlong would have been running here and
there, peeking into parcels and restraining her curiosity till the
next day out of sheer joy in curiosity. Now she opened never a
bundle. She could only think of the morrow when all of these donors
found that reciprocity had gone down to defeat. The Budlongs avoided
each other's eyes. They were thinking the same thing. The strain
endured till it tested their metal to the breaking point. When three
enormous packages were brought to the door by the Detwillers' hired
man, Mrs. Budlong broke out hysterically:

"I just can't stand it."