The dinner was eaten and pronounced perfect. The gifts were
re-examined and re-admired. John Levine, with Lydia and Florence
Dombey on his lap, Amos with the drowsy little Patience in his arms,
and Lizzie, her tired hands folded across her comfortable stomach, sat
round the base burner while the wind rose outside and the boom of the
ice-locked lake filled the room from time to time.

"Fearful cold when the ice cracks that way," said Amos.

"'The owl, for all his feathers was a-cold,'" murmured Lydia.

"Where'd you get that and what's the rest of it?" asked Levine.

"Selected Gems," replied Lydia. "It's a book at school.

"'St. Agnes Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl for all his feathers was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass
And silent was the flock in woolly fold.'

I forget the rest."

The grown-ups glanced at each other over the children's heads.

"Say your pretty Christmas poem you spoke at school, Lydia," suggested
old Lizzie.

Lydia rested her head back comfortably on John's shoulder and rambled
on in her childish contralto.