present--and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a
bookmark of perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow
worsted goblet worked on it, and below, in green letters, the
solemn warning, "Touch Not The Cup." As Peter was not addicted to
habits of intemperance, not even to looking on dandelion wine when
it was pale yellow, we did not exactly see why Felicity should
have selected such a device. But Peter was perfectly satisfied,
so nobody cast any blight on his happiness by carping criticism.
Later on Felicity told me she had worked the bookmark for him
because his father used to drink before he ran away.

"I thought Peter ought to be warned in time," she said.

Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half
an hour after it was tied on him. Pat did not care for vain
adornments of the body.

We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus,
and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us
afraid on that one day of the year. And in the evening--oh,
rapture and delight!--we went to Kitty Marr's party.

It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had
mellowed until it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow,
and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown
and mellow. A weird, dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple
earth, the dark fir woods, the valley rims, the sere meadows.
Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that
her long wintry slumber was coming upon her.