Yet he had felt even when he was considering them, that none of them would be just the thing for Demeter Cass. She would be pleased with something exotic, something weird and extremely modern, even something outlandishly ugly, if it were ugly enough to be distinguished. And such things he could not bring himself to buy and present to her. He had been trying to think that Demeter Cass was higher and finer than she allowed herself to seem to be. He wasn’t sure himself just which of a number of things he had bought he intended to give her. And now he was glad it was settled for him. If he wasn’t there at the party he wouldn’t have to give her anything, and he found to his astonishment that he was immensely relieved not to have to decide about her at all now. He was content just to rest and enjoy this quiet room, this haven in the midst of storm, and think of the pleasant family he was to meet in the morning. Yes, he must think over those gifts and find something suitable for each one, and then he must slip out in the morning before anybody was up and put one in each stocking. Five stockings to help fill! A real old-fashioned Christmas! There must be something among that whole suitcase of gifts that would do! But somehow he felt himself drifting away again. He really mustn’t go to sleep yet until he had thought what to put in the stockings!

But sleep came down upon him and enveloped him with peace, and he slept in spite of his best resolves.

It was still snowing when he awoke. He could hear the soft plash against the window pane now and again, but the wind had gone down. The wild roar of it had ceased. There was a quiet sense of being shut in that gave security and a new kind of peace. He wasn’t going to feel bad if he had to stay the day out here among these delightful, sincere people. He had a feeling as he woke that he was a little boy again waking on Christmas morning, with the thrill of anticipation that he used to feel as a child. It was great. He lay still for a little just to keep that delightful sense of expectance.

Then he became aware of another sound in the room. The soft burning of the fire, the falling down of a stick that had burned through to a heart of glowing coals. Just out of curiosity he had to open his eyes to look at that fire. Surely it had not kept all night! Not the same fire that was there when he went to sleep! No, it was a big, bright, lively fire. Someone had been in while he slept and made it up. The room was quite warm. The flicker of the fire was over the walls rosily, playing over the sheer white curtains, dancing over the cretonne roses on the big wing chair and the rocker. It was all invitingly pleasant to get up and dress, and suddenly he felt wide awake and remembered that he had to get things ready to put in those stockings out there.

The house was very still. Only the crackling of the fire accompanied the occasional soft plashing of the snow against the upper part of the windowpanes not already vested with it. It must be that the family was not up yet, unless perhaps they were keeping quiet so they wouldn’t disturb him. But who could have fixed the fire? The splendid old father likely. Surely Lance wouldn’t have woken up early after his strenuous trip in the snow. And with his strained ankle he wouldn’t have tried to make fires yet.