"Stuff and nonsense!" mused Miss Terry scornfully. "What is our Christmas,
anyway? A time for shopkeepers to sell and for foolish folks to kill
themselves in buying. Christmas spirit? No! It is all humbug,--all
selfishness, and worry; an unwholesome season of unnatural activities. I am
glad I am out of it. I am glad no one expects anything of me,--nor I of any
one. I am quite independent; blessedly independent of the whole foolish
business. It is a good time to begin clearing up for the new year. I'm glad
I thought of it. I've long threatened to get rid of the stuff that has
been accumulating in that corner of the attic. Now I will begin."

She tugged the packing-case an inch nearer the fire. It was like Miss Terry
to insist upon that nearer inch. Then she raised the cover. It was a box
full of children's battered toys, old-fashioned and quaint; the toys in
vogue thirty--forty--fifty years earlier, when Miss Terry was a child. She
gave a reminiscent sniff as she threw up the cover and saw on the under
side of it a big label of pasteboard unevenly lettered.

[Illustration: PLAY BOX OF TOM TERRY AND ANGELINA TERRY (scrawl)]

"Humph!" she snorted. There was a great deal in that "humph." It meant:
Yes, Tom's name had plenty of room, while poor little Angelina had to
squeeze in as well as she could. How like Tom! This accounted for
everything, even to his not being in his sister's house this very night.
How unreasonable he had been!

Miss Terry shrugged impatiently. Why think of Tom to-night? Years ago he
had deliberately cut himself adrift from her interests. No need to think of
him now. It was too late to appease her. But here were all these toys to be
got rid of. The fire was hungry for them. Why not begin?