It was the Christmas season in California,—­a season of falling rain and springing grasses.  There were intervals when, through driving clouds and flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death and resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay a joyous life struggled outward and upward.  Even the storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places.  There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields the farmer’s ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains.  Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens which decorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows, as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.

“Now,” said the Doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him, “I want it distinctly understood before I begin my story, that I am not to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions.  At the first one I shall stop.  At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose of castor-oil, all around.  The boy that moves his legs or arms will be understood to invite amputation.  I have brought my instruments with me, and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business.  Do you promise?”

“Yes, sir,” said six small voices, simultaneously.  The volley was, however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.

“Silence!  Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword.  Flora shall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest.  Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes.  Now, turn down the gas a little; there, that will do,—­just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to show off the Christmas candles.  Silence, everybody!  The boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of the room?”

There was a profound silence.  Bob laid his sword tenderly aside, and nursed his leg thoughtfully.  Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the pocket of her little apron, put her arm upon the Doctor’s shoulder, and permitted herself to be drawn beside him.  Fung Tang, the little heathen page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christian revels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was at once sweet and philosophical.  The light ticking of a French clock on the mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like peace of the apartment,—­a peace which held the odors of evergreens, new toys, cedar-boxes, glue, and varnish in an harmonious combination that passed all understanding.