"Don't let Bran in," cried some one from upstairs.

"He is in, Mother!" Margaret called back, and Rebecca and the three
small boys--Theodore, the four-year-old baby, Robert, and Duncan, a
grave little lad of seven--all rushed out of the dining-room together,
shouting, as they fell on the delighted dog:--

"Aw, leave him in! Aw, leave the poor little feller in! Come on, Bran,
come on, old feller! Leave him in, Mark, can't we?"

Kissing and hugging the dog, and stumbling over each other and over
him, they went back to the dining-room, which was warm and stuffy. A
coal fire was burning low in the grate, the window-panes were beaded,
and the little boys had marked their initials in the steam. They had
also pushed the fringed table-cover almost off, and scattered the
contents of a box of "Lotto" over the scarred walnut top. The room was
shabby, ugly, comfortable. Julie and Margaret had established a tea
table in the bay window, had embroidered a cover for the wide couch,
had burned the big wooden bowl that was supposedly always full of nuts
or grapes or red apples. But these touches were lost in the mass of
less pleasing detail. The "body Brussels" carpet was worn, the wall
paper depressing, the woodwork was painted dark brown, with an
imitation burl smeared in by the painter's thumb. The chairs were of
several different woods and patterns, the old black walnut sideboard
clumsy and battered. About the fire stood some comfortable worn
chairs. Margaret dropped wearily into one of these, and the dark-eyed
Julie hung over her with little affectionate attentions. The children
returned to their game.