There was a paper-knife for Uncle Tom, and a workbasket for Aunt Mary, and a dress apiece for Catherine, Bridget, and Mary Ann, none of whom Peter ever forgot.  Although the smoke was even at that period beginning to creep westward, the sun poured through the lace curtains into the little dining-room and danced on the silver coffeepot as Aunt Mary poured out Peter’s cup, and the blue china breakfast plates were bluer than ever because it was Christmas.  The humblest of familiar articles took on the air of a present.  And after breakfast, while Aunt Mary occupied herself with that immemorial institution,—­which was to lure hitherwards so many prominent citizens of St. Louis during the day,—­eggnogg, Peter surveyed the offerings which transformed the sitting-room.  The table had been pushed back against the bookcases, the chairs knew not their time-honoured places, and white paper and red ribbon littered the floor.  Uncle Tom, relegated to a corner, pretended to read his newspaper, while Honora flitted from Peter’s knees to his, or sat cross-legged on the hearth-rug investigating a bottomless stocking.

“What in the world are we going to do with all these things?” said Peter.

“We?” cried Honora.

“When we get married, I mean,” said Peter, smiling at Uncle Tom.  “Let’s see!” and he began counting on his fingers, which were long but very strong—­so strong that Honora could never loosen even one of them when they gripped her.  “One—­two—­three—­eight Christmases before you are twenty-one.  We’ll have enough things to set us up in housekeeping.  Or perhaps you’d rather get married when you are eighteen?”

“I’ve always told you I wasn’t going to marry you, Peter,” said Honora, with decision.

“Why by not?” He always asked that question.

Honora sighed.

“I’ll make a good husband,” said Peter; “I’ll promise.  Ugly men are always good husbands.”

“I didn’t say you were ugly,” declared the ever considerate Honora.

“Only my nose is too big,” he quoted; “and I am too long one way and not wide enough.”

“You have a certain air of distinction in spite of it,” said Honora.

Uncle Tom’s newspaper began to shake, and he read more industriously than ever.

“You’ve been reading—­novels!” said Peter, in a terrible judicial voice.

Honora flushed guiltily, and resumed her inspection of the stocking.  Miss Rossiter, a maiden lady of somewhat romantic tendencies, was librarian of the Book Club that year.  And as a result a book called “Harold’s Quest,” by an author who shall be nameless, had come to the house.  And it was Harold who had had “a certain air of distinction.”

“It isn’t very kind of you to make fun of me when I pay you a compliment,” replied Honora, with dignity.

“I was naturally put out,” he declared gravely, “because you said you wouldn’t marry me.  But I don’t intend to give up.  No man who is worth his salt ever gives up.”