Mrs. Brown knew better than to send
in the porridge with the gong on Christmas morning. Instead, the table
was heaped with parcels, a goodly pile by every plate.
"What an abominable litter!" said Mr. Linton, affecting displeasure.
"Norah, kindly oblige me by getting those things out of your way. How
are you going to eat breakfast?"
"You're as bad as I am, Daddy!"
"Dear me!" said her father. "I seem to be. Well, yours is decidedly the
most untidy, so you had better begin."
They watched the eager face as Norah turned to her bundles. Books from
Cecil and his mother; warm slippers made by Brownie; a halter
exquisitely plaited from finest strips of hide by Murty O'Toole, the
sight of which brought the whole gathering to Norah's side; from Wally
a quaint little bronze inkstand, and from Jim the daintiest horse rug
that Melbourne could produce, made to fit Bobs, with a big scarlet B in
one corner, and Norah's monogram in the other. "Not that he needs it
just now," Jim explained, as Norah hugged him--"but a store's no sore,
as Brownie'd say!" Last, a tiny velvet case, which concealed a brooch--a
thin bar of gold with one beautiful pearl. Norah did not need the slip
of paper under it to know it came from Dad.
Then things became merry, and even Cecil warmed at the gifts on his
plate, while the boys were exclaiming in delight over Norah's knitting,
and Wally was shaking hands with Mr.
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