"And you, Josey," cried Phronsie, with a happy little hum, "you are all
here yourself," as the group left the fire, and surrounded them.

"Well--well--well!" cried old Mr. King, lifting his head in its velvet
lounging cap from the sofa where he had been napping. "Are you really
here, Joe!"

"Just like you," greeted Alexia, running down the broad oaken stairs.
"Here, he's come!" to Polly, appearing at the head. "We were finishing
the tree, and we heard the noise. Dear me, Joe, I should think it was a
cyclone," as she joined the group, Polly close behind.

Joel tossed her a saucy answer, while Polly got on her tiptoes and
caught his crop of short black hair in her two hands. "Oh, Joe," she
said, dropping a kiss on it, "it was lovely in you to go back."

Joel felt well repaid for losing the jolly run down, and the grand
_entree_ into Dunraven, his soul loved, but he covered up what he
thought, by pulling Phronsie into the middle of the hall. "Come on,
Phron," he said, "for a spin like old times."

"See here," cried Alexia, "we ought to get back to that Tree, Polly
Pepper, or it won't be ready. Dear me, I dropped a box of frost all over
the stairs; Joel made such a noise."

At the mere mention of such a possibility as the Tree not being ready,
everybody started; the last one in the procession, picking up the
doll-box, their movements somewhat quickened, as loud calls were now set
up above stairs, for "Polly--Polly!"