At last it was opened, and I said, aunt-like, "Do you like it,
Hugh?"

"Awfully, thanks." Then he added a little wistfully, "Tommy's got
a knife with things in it, a button'ook."

Perhaps he saw I looked disappointed, for he added magnanimously,
"I like trains next best, Aunt Woggles; only you see I didn't
exactly pray for a train, that's why. What's Betty's?"

"Betty must open it herself."

"Don't you suppose," he said, "that she would like me to open it
for her, because it is a hard thing opening parcels -- and Betty
says I may always open all her parcels when she is out."

"Hugh!" I exclaimed.

He rushed to the door. "Come on, Betty," he shouted. "Aunt
Woggles wants you."

If Betty's entrance was less tempestuous than Hugh's, her embrace
was not less ecstatic. She put her arms round my neck and took
her legs off the ground, -- a quite simple process, and known to
most aunts, I expect. The ultimate result would, no doubt, be
strangulation. No one knows, of course, but among aunts it is a
very general belief. Unlike Hugh, Betty kept her eyes religiously
away from parcels, and she got very pink when I drew her attention
to the very nobly one which was hers. Hugh stood by, urging her