On this Saturday--Christmas Eve's eve--when Langshaw finally reached
home, laden with all the "last things" and the impossible packages of
tortuous shapes left by fond relatives at his office for the
children--one pocket of his overcoat weighted with the love-box of
really good candy for Clytie--it was evident as soon as he opened the
hall door that something unusual was going on upstairs. Wild shrieks of
"It's father! It's father!" rent the air.

"It's father!"

"Fardie! Fardie, don't come up!"

"Father, don't come up!"

"Father, it's your present!"

There was hasty scurrying of feet, racing to and fro, and further
shrieks. Langshaw waited, smiling.

It was evidently a "boughten" gift, then; the last had been a water
pitcher, much needed in the household. He braced himself fondly for
immense enthusiasm over this.

An expression of intense excitement was visible on each face when
finally he was allowed to enter the upper room. Mary and Baby rushed at
him to clasp his leg, while his wife leaned over to kiss him as he
whispered:

"I brought out a lot of truck; it's all in the closet in the hall."