myself!"

"Ye see, it's just this," apologized Lydia Ann feverishly. "They give us
things, of course, but they never make anythin' of doin' it, not even
ter tyin' 'em up with a piece of red ribbon. They just slip into our
bedroom an' leave 'em all done up in brown paper an' we find 'em after
they're gone. They mean it all kind, but I'm so tired of gray worsted
and sensible things. Of course I can't have a tree, an' I don't suppose
I really want it; but I'd like somethin' all pretty an' sparkly an'--an'
silly, you know. An' there's another thing I want--ice cream. An' I want
to make myself sick eatin' it, too,--if I want to; an' I want little
pink-an'-white sugar pep'mints hung in bags. Samuel, can't you see how
pretty a bag o' pink pep'mints 'd be on that green tree? An'--dearie
me!" broke off the little old woman breathlessly, falling back in her
chair. "How I'm runnin' on! I reckon I am in my dotage."

For a moment Samuel did not reply. His brow was puckered into a
prodigious frown, and his right hand had sought the back of his head--as
was always the case when in deep thought. Suddenly his face cleared.

"Ye ain't in yer dotage--by gum, ye ain't!" he cried excitedly. "An' I
ain't, neither. An' what's more, you're a-goin' ter have that tree--ice
cream, pink pep'mints, an' all!"

"Oh, my grief an' conscience--Samuel!" quavered Lydia Ann.

"Well, ye be. We can do it easy, too. We'll have it the night 'fore
Christmas. The children don't get here until Christmas day, ever, ye
know, so 't won't interfere a mite with their visit, an' 'twill be all
over 'fore they get here. An' we'll make a party of it, too," went on