There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had told her little daughter; the Huntleys did not keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way. They kept it in so far that on this very afternoon Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies, dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner. Mr. Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a moment to say to his wife, "What have you settled on for Ned's Christmas?"
"I've bought him a pair of arctics—he needed 'em; and if you want to spend more than common, you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs."
"Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps" —the farmer tried to be particular about his words, for Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor—"I was remembering how you used to enjoy giving the young ones candies and toys; so, perhaps—"
"Now, Noah Huntley, I'm surprised at you! Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy like Ned? Why, you must be crazy, man! The next thing will be that you'll want a Christmas-tree yourself!"

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