Allie stood before the glorious wood fire, around which we were all gathered awaiting the summons to dinner, gazing intently into its glowing depths, and evidently sunk in such deep meditation as to be oblivious, for the moment, of her surroundings, and of what she was doing; for her doll, a new and much prized Christmas-gift from uncle Rutherford, and a beauty, hung disregarded, head downwards, in the hand which had sunk unconsciously by her side, while, with the forefinger of the other pressed upon her rosy little lips, she seemed to be pondering some weighty matter.

Daisy lay stretched with her doll upon the tiger-skin, and presently, looking up, roused Allie from her distraction.

“Why, Allie,” she exclaimed, “what you finking about so much? Serena Victoria is most upside down. Just look at her!”

Allie reversed her doll to its proper position; and, as she settled its costume, gave Daisy her answer, by putting into words the thought which was vexing the minds of some of her elders, but addressed herself to me, as a kindred spirit.

“Amy, do you b’lieve Mrs. Yorke will be very fit-to-be-seen to take out walking or driving on the avenue, or in the park?”

“Why, Allie,” I said, weakly evading the question, and also answering by another, “do you not think your friend Mrs. Yorke is always fit to be seen?”

Still, Allie replied by a fresh query.

“Amy, have you seen Mrs. Yorke’s best bonnet? her ‘sabbath bonnet,’ she calls it.” And she turned upon me large eyes, full of solemn meaning.

Yes, I had, indeed, seen Mrs. Yorke’s “sabbath bonnet;” and it was the recollection of that appalling article of attire which at the present moment was weighing on my own spirits.

Here Daisy piped up, also giving voice to the sentiments of her sisters.

“Mrs. Yorke is very nice,” she said, “and we love her lots, but in her Sunday clothes she don’t seem like Mrs. Yorke.”

It was even so. Mrs. Yorke in her every-day costume, and Mrs. Yorke in gorgeous Sunday array, were two and “oh the difference to me!”

“How do you know,” said uncle Rutherford, “but that Santa Claus himself may have taken the matter in hand? Mrs. Yorke’s Sunday bonnet may not have been to his taste, and he may have provided her with another.”

“I hope, then,” answered Allie, sceptically, “that he hasn’t brought her a brown felt with red feathers and a terra-cotta bow.”

“That would not have improved matters much, would it?” asked uncle Rutherford, with a twinkle in his eye. “No; I think his taste would run to black, perhaps. What do you say, aunt Emily?”

“I should say his fancy would lie in a black felt, with black velvet trimmings and feathers,” answered aunt Emily. “How would that do, Allie?”

“Very well,” said Allie, “if he brought her a black dress, too, ’stead of a’ old plaid.”

“And a new cloak, too,” put in Daisy. “Her’s isn’t very pretty; I saw it once; but I’d just as lieve have Mrs. Yorke anyhow she was.”

The grammar might be childishly faulty, but the feeling of the speech was without a flaw, and from the heart Daisy would have accepted Mrs. Yorke as she was, and thought it no shame or embarrassment to escort her anywhere; but bonny Allie was a lady of high degree, with an eye for appearances and the proprieties, and Mrs. Yorke’s antiquated and incongruous gala costume would sorely have tried her soul, although she would doubtless have borne her company with a good grace, and with no outward show of the pangs she might be enduring. How greatly she was relieved now could be judged by the laughing light which sparkled in her eyes, the dimples which showed themselves at the corners of her mouth, and the ecstatic way in which she hugged the long-suffering doll.

“She’ll be lovely and fit-to-be-seen now!” she exclaimed. “Won’t she, Daisy? She’ll look just like mammy.”

“But,” said Daisy, doubtfully, unconscious of the knowing gaze which her older little sister had fixed upon uncle Rutherford’s face, a gaze which he returned with interest “but did Santa Claus bring Mrs. Yorke all those things, Allie?”

“Yes, he did; a Santa Claus did; I’m perfectly sure he did,” said Allie. “But they didn’t come in her stocking, or grow on a Christmas-tree, either, I know.”

“I fink he was real mean if he brought her all those, and didn’t bring her a muff and some gloves and a’ umbulla, too,” said Daisy.

Before the laugh, which followed, had subsided, Thomas appeared at one entrance to announce dinner, and mammy at the other to carry off her charges. Full of the news they had to impart to her, of Santa Claus’s supposed benefactions to Mrs. Yorke, they went more willingly than usual.

Yes, Christmas had come and gone, Christmas with all its sacred, hallowed associations, its pastimes and pleasures, its loving remembrances and family gatherings; and never had a dearer and happier one been passed beneath our roof. No, nor one more productive of choice and beautiful gifts from each one to each; and the little ones had outdone themselves for the blessed and beloved holiday.

And it was an article of the family creed, both on the Livingstone and Rutherford sides, that the good things which had been so bountifully showered upon our pathway in life should be shared with others, especially at this season of peace and good-will. So it was no surprise, although it was a great relief to some of us, to learn that Mrs. Yorke had been made presentable for the visit to the city, which would involve some attentions on our part that might have proved embarrassing had she appeared in her wonted holiday costume. Mother and aunt Emily had been the two good fairies who had wrought the transformation through the medium of a Christmas-box, which had contained bountiful gifts for the whole Yorke family.

And now Captain and Mrs. Yorke were to come to the city on the very next day, accompanied by the to Jim, at least objectionable Theodore. Mrs. Yorke, whose crippled condition sadly interfered with her comfort and usefulness in life, was to be placed immediately under the care of our own family physician, who had become interested in her case during a visit paid to us at the seashore during the previous summer; and aunt Emily had secured a comfortable abiding-place for her, not very far from our own home, where the children, whom she adored, and mammy could often run in to see her, and where the elder members of the family could now and then pay her a visit. The captain was to remain with her, or not, as his inclination might prompt; but uncle Rutherford thought, that, the novelty of city sights and sounds once exhausted, the old man would prefer to return to his accustomed haunts by the sea. Theodore was to board with his grandparents, and to begin school with the New Year; at the same time, and alas! for the inexpediency of uncle Rutherford’s arrangements in the same school, with Jim.

Such were the plans which had been made for the Yorkes, and the junior portion of our household were in a state of eager expectation over their approaching arrival; the desire to witness the old seaman’s first impressions of a city life, and his own conduct therein, being strong within us.

“We’ll give him a good time, and get lots of fun out of it for ourselves,” said Norman and Douglas, who proposed to be his pioneers.

As for Bill and Jim, there was no telling what manner of projects they might have formed for his edification, and their own amusement and his; and father considered it necessary to bid Milly give them a word of warning not to practise on the credulity of the old sailor, as they had at times been wont to do while we were at the seashore.

“And what about the mercantile enterprise of that youth, with so many irons in the fire?” asked uncle Rutherford, when dinner was over, and the door closed behind the retreating servants, while we still lingered around the table; the little girls having been allowed to come down to dessert. “How does the peanut-business flourish, Milly? You are posted, I suppose.”

“Not so thoroughly as Allie and Daisy,” answered Milly. “I understand that it is flourishing; but, if you wish for minute particulars, you must apply to them.”

Allie, hearing what was passing, forthwith dived into the depths of her small pocket, and produced from thence a miniature account-book, saying triumphantly as she did so,

“Jim’s sold the first bag of peanuts, and bought another, and then sold that; and now he’s bought two at once, and” opening the book, and poring over it, “and he’s made see, uncle Rutherford, here it is,” and she pointed out a row of crooked, childish, illegible figures; to be understood, doubtless, by the initiated, but Greek to uncle Rutherford.

“How does the boy manage to keep account of his business?” asked uncle Rutherford, returning the book to Allie, as wise as when she handed it to him, but not confessing his ignorance.

“By preparing himself for a dyspeptic existence,” said Milly. “He swallows his meals in haste, Thomas says, and rushes from the table, and around to the Fourth Avenue to receive Tony’s report, and be back in time for his work. Nor is he always quite in time, I imagine; but Thomas is indulgent and patient, and Bill helps him. I understand that the little cripples are really making fair sales, and Jim is reaping quite a harvest.”

“Yes, uncle Rutherford knows that by my ’count-book,” said unsuspicious Allie. “Read it aloud, please, uncle, so they can all hear.”

“Hm ­hm, yes, my dear; but I do not like to read aloud after dinner,” said uncle Rutherford, still forbearing to enlighten her innocence.

“It isn’t so much reading,” murmured Allie, rather hurt, for she was an over-sensitive child, prone to imagine slights, and, as we know, given to ready tears. “I’ll tell you, people;” and she proceeded to give the amount made by Jim since he had established the peanut-stand, with its various divisions for the separate objects of his benevolence and ambition. The latter figured under the head of “For to be President;” and if her accounts, or, rather, Jim’s as set down by her, were to be trusted, he had really done very well in the stand business.

“We know two deforms,” quoth Daisy, solemnly, as Allie closed; “one deform is very nice and good, and the ofer is horrid and scratching. One is Captain Yorke’s, and the ofer is Jim’s peanut-stand girl. But we have to be good to the cross deform, ’cause God made her that way. Allie and I are going to try and make her nice and pleasant, too.”

“She thinks we’re proud, and only like to go to see her, and show her our nice dolls and things, to make her feel sorry,” said Allie; “Tony said so. And she turns her hump at us, and makes faces at us, and won’t think we want to be good to her. She thinks we’re proud at her, ’cause she has to sell peanuts.”

“You go and sell peanuts, then, and show her you’re not too proud to do it,” said Douglas, carelessly, and certainly with no thought that the suggestion would ever be acted upon.

“We needn’t to have been afraid about Mrs. Yorke’s fit-to-be-seenedness,” said Allie, hopping delightedly around on one foot, the day after the arrival of the Yorkes, and on her return from her first visit to them. “Why, she does look so nice; just as nice as mammy in her Sunday clothes. She looks almost lady.”

“Yes, she does, and it don’t make any dif’ence, if she behaves lady,” said Daisy; “and I fink she always behaves very lady. Mamma,” with a sudden and startling change of subject, “if somebody told you you could do somefing to help somebody, oughtn’t you to do it?”

“Yes, my darling, if you can,” answered mother, rather oblivious, to tell the truth, of the child’s earnestness in putting the question; for she was at the moment writing an answer to a note which had been just brought in.

“And it’s very nice to do the kind fing, and not speak about it, isn’t it?” questioned Daisy.

“Very, dear,” answered mother, still only half hearing the little one, and far from thinking that she was supposed to be giving her sanction to a most unheard of proceeding.

Mrs. Yorke’s attire and general appearance proved satisfactory even to fastidious Miss Allie and myself; indeed, she would have passed muster among any hundred elderly women of the respectable middle class; and there was nothing whatever about her to attract special attention, unless one turned again for a second look at the kind, motherly old face. There was a sort of natural refinement about her, too, which made her adapt herself with some ease to her unaccustomed surroundings.

As for the captain, he was a hopeless subject for those who had an eye to fashion or the commonplace. No amount of attempts at smoothing or trimming him down, no efforts at personal adornment in his case, could make of him any thing but what he was, here in the great city, as well as at his seaside home, the typical old sea-faring man, rough, hearty, simple, and good-natured, garrulous to excess, as we had often proved, and not to be polished, or made what he called “cityfied.”

“‘Tain’t no sort of use whitewashin’ the old hulk,” he asserted; “an’ I guess my Sunday clo’s, as is good enough for the Lord’s meetin’-house up to the Pint, is got to be good enough for these messed-up city streets; an’ ye can’t make no bricky-bracky outer me.”

To the boys he was a source of unmixed delight, both to our own young brothers, and to the two servant-lads; and no care for the eyes or comments of the world troubled any one of them when he happened to be under their escort. And little Daisy was equally independent, or perhaps too innocent to take any heed of such matters.

A feverish, influenza cold confined both Allie and mammy to the house for a day or two soon after the arrival of the Yorkes in the city, and Daisy was consequently obliged to be confided to the care of others when she took her walks.

She had been out driving one afternoon with mother and aunt Emily; and they, having an engagement for “a tea,” to which they could not take her, brought her home. At the foot of our front-steps stood Captain Yorke, complacently basking in the almost April sunshine, and amusing himself by gazing up and down the street, and across the park, on which our house fronted. It was an exceptionally beautiful day for the time of year, soft, balmy, and springlike.

“Ye won’t git another like it to-morrer; two sich don’t come together this time o’ year,” said the captain, as mother, greeting him, remarked on the loveliness of the weather. “Ye kin look out for a gale to close out the year with, I reckon. There’s mischief brewin’ over yonder,” pointing to where a bank of clouds lay low upon the southwestern horizon. “Ye’d best take yer fill of bein’ out doors to-day.”

“Yes,” said Daisy, pleadingly, “it’s so nice and pleasant. Mamma, couldn’t some of the servants take me out a little more? I don’t want to go in yet.”

“Leave her along of me, Mis’ Livin’stone,” said the old man. “Me an’ her’ll take care of one another.”

Daisy beamed at the proposition; and mother had not the heart to refuse her, or the old sailor.

“Well,” she said, “you may stay out a while with the captain; but only on condition that you both promise not to go far from the house, but remain either on the Square, or on this block. You see, captain,” she continued, “Daisy is too little to pilot you about, and you are too much of a stranger in the city to be a guide for her beyond the neighborhood of home. If you want to leave her, or she tires, just take her to the door, and ring the bell for her. Or perhaps you will go in yourself, and see Allie and mammy. They cannot go astray or get into any trouble so near home,” she said to aunt Emily, when she had given her orders, and the carriage moved on, leaving Daisy and the captain standing side by side on the pavement, the little one with her tiny hand clasped in the toil-worn palm of the veteran.

“Impossible!” said aunt Emily; “and the captain is as good as any nurse, you know. I would quite as soon trust her with him as with mammy.”

But aunt Emily, and mother too, had forgotten to take into account the captain’s deficiency of a sense of the fitness of things, at least, of matters appertaining to a city-life.

He and Daisy rambled contentedly up and down the block, from one corner to another, for some time, she prattling away to him, and enlightening his ignorance so far as she was able, until, at last, they unfortunately touched upon Jim’s affairs.

“Let’s go round an’ buy some peanuts outer Jim’s stand,” said the captain. “’Tain’t far, ye know.”

“No,” answered obedient Daisy, “not far; but mamma said we mustn’t go way from sight of our house, fear we would be lost, and we’d be way from sight of it if we went to Jim’s peanut-stand. But, Captain Yorke, Matty is cross wif Allie and me, ’cause she finks we’re proud ’cause we don’t sell peanuts; and Douglas says I ought to sell peanuts, so she’ll know I’m not proud. Do you fink we could sell a few peanuts now? I know where Jim keeps ’em.”

“Wal, I reckon ye kin sell peanuts, my pretty, if ye have ’em to sell,” answered the old man, seeing no reason why Daisy should not have her own way, and perhaps scenting a little diversion for himself in the project; “but if ye can’t go round to t’other street, how are ye goin’ to get ’em?”

“Oh, Jim keeps ’em his bags of peanuts out in a pantry under our back-stoop,” said Daisy; “and ev’y morning Tony comes for some to sell. We’ll go in, and ask some of the servants to give us some, and then we’ll sell ’em.”

If “some of the servants” had been found, this unprecedented plan would have met with due interference; but it so happened, that they were all scattered at their various avocations in different parts of the house, and none were in the kitchen save old Mary Jane, to whom Daisy knew better than to appeal on behalf of any interests of Jim’s. She was busy grinding coffee; and the noise of the mill prevented her from hearing the footsteps of the invaders of her domain, who passed through the basement-hall, and out of the back-door, where, although they found no one to help them, Daisy, to her great delight, discovered the key of the closet in the lock. To open the door, bid the captain take down an empty basket, which hung on a hook, and to fill this with peanuts from an open bag, was but the work of a few moments; the captain’s huge hands scooping up the nuts in quantities, and soon accomplishing the task. Then, arming themselves with a tin cup, which they also found near at hand, by way of a measure, the two conspirators once more stole past the unconscious Mary Jane, and out into the street, the captain bearing the basket.

“Shall we sell ’em on our stoop?” asked Daisy, all this time quite guiltless of any intention of wrong-doing.

“I reckon ye’d best go down to the corner there, where the two streets comes together,” answered the captain, pointing to where a much-frequented cross-street intersected our avenue. “Them’s my opinions, for I see lots more folks walkin’ that way than this.”

Unfortunately, Daisy saw the force of his reasoning; and the two innocents had presently established themselves, quite to their own satisfaction, on this public corner.

It was not long before they attracted sufficient attention, for they were two rather unusual looking figures to be engaged in such an occupation, to say nothing of the contrast between them; the weather-beaten, rugged, by no means handsome old sailor standing guard, as it were, over the daintily dressed little child with her beautiful, beaming face, and winning ways.

Custom flowed in without delay, the captain not hesitating to hail the passers-by, and to direct their attention to the tiny saleswoman before him; while she, with her sweet voice, pleading, “Please buy some peanuts to help some poor children;” and her attractive air and appearance was irresistible.

Fortunately for the pecuniary interests of the firm, or, rather, of the capitalist whom they represented, Daisy knew from the boys the price that the peanuts should be; and the captain, who, spite of his simplicity, had a keen eye to business, and who was accustomed to peddling about “the Point” during the summer season, constituted himself cash-taker, and saw that she received her dues.

But public curiosity was naturally excited by the unusual situation, and presently both Daisy and Captain Yorke were besieged with questions, which the latter resented as implying a distrust of his ability to care for the child. Truly, it might well be doubted. But this was no check upon custom, and the stock in the basket at Daisy’s feet speedily dwindled down. The bottom had nearly been reached, when a policeman sauntered by on the other side of the street; and, being attracted by the gathering on the corner, for those who came to buy, in many cases remained to admire, he crossed over to ascertain the cause. Great was his astonishment, and small his approbation, when he discovered the state of things; for he knew our children by sight, and could not but be aware that such doings as these could not be with the approbation of Daisy’s family.

“Why, that is isn’t that Mr. Livingstone’s little girl?” he asked of the captain.

The captain nodded; he was too busily engaged in keeping an eye on the money Daisy received, to do more.

“Well, if ever I saw a thing like this!” ejaculated the guardian of the peace. “To see a little lady like that my dear, do your pa and ma know what you’re a doing?”

“No, not yet,” answered Daisy; who looked with cordial eye upon all policemen, as being, according to her code, the defenders of the right, and avengers of the wrong. “No, not yet; I’ll tell them by and by, and they’ll be glad, ’cause they like me to do a kindness, and not speak about it.”

“Will they?” said the policeman, with a clearer insight into the fitness of things, than was possessed by Daisy or the old sailor. “Now, my little lady, you’ve got to go straight home; I know what your pa and ma will say. You come right along home, like a good child.”

“Now, you let her alone,” interposed Captain Yorke. “’Tain’t no case for the law, ‘sposin’ her folks don’t like it; an’ I’ll wager they do.”

“You old lunatic,” said the policeman, “what are you encouragin’ of her for? Who ever saw a little lady like that sellin’ peanuts in the streets! I ain’t goin’ to allow it nohow; it’s drawin’ a crowd; and, as to the law, she nor you ain’t any right to be sellin’ ’em here without a license. Come along home, little Miss.”

But here a new actor appeared upon the scene, and prevented any further opposition on the part of the captain. This was Jim, who was returning from an errand; and, seeing Captain Yorke’s tall figure standing by the lamp-post with an unmistakably belligerent expression in every line, he elbowed his way through the fast increasing crowd, and stood astonished and dismayed before Daisy.

“Miss Daisy, whatever do you mean by this? You sellin’ peanuts here in the street!”

“Matty Blair does,” faltered Daisy, beginning, by virtue of all these various protests, to see that perhaps she might have strayed from the way in which she should go.

“Matty Blair!” ejaculated Jim, again. “Well, Miss Daisy, I guess Matty Blair’s one, an’ you’re another. Won’t your pa an’ ma, an’ all of ’em, be mad, though!”

“So I was sayin’,” said the policeman, who was quite well acquainted with Jim; “and now, youngster, the best thing you can do is to take the little lady home, and tell her folks to look out for her better than to put her under the care of this old know-nothing.”

This entirely met Jim’s views; and, snatching up the almost empty basket, he seized the hand of the now frightened Daisy, and hurried her homeward, leaving the policeman and the captain exchanging compliments until such time as the latter saw fit to retire from the field, and hasten to our house to deliver up the results of poor Daisy’s sale.

It may be imagined what consternation reigned in the Livingstone household, when this escapade of its youngest member came to light; while the grief and bewilderment of that little damsel herself, who had, in all good faith, believed that she had mother’s sanction for her course, were pitiable to witness. As for Jim, not even the gratifying pecuniary results could nullify his mortification at the disgrace which he believed to have fallen upon the family, especially his beloved Miss Daisy; and he found it hard to forgive the captain, who had encouraged and abetted her.

“Philanthropy has certainly seized upon this family to an alarming extent,” said Bessie Sandford, when she heard the story, “but I wish that I had been there to see pet Daisy at her post acting peanut-vender.”

How far Daisy’s effort to prove to Matty that she “was not proud” affected that young cripple, could not be told; but she did not fail to hear of the thing from Jim.

As for Captain Yorke, he received his full share of reprimand, and caution for the future, from his wife, who, all unaccustomed as she, too, was to city ways, had far more natural sense of what was fitting and advisable.

“If I could but go round with him to keep him up to the mark, Mrs. Livingstone,” she said, when apologizing to mother for the captain’s share in the late escapade; “but, bless you, dear lady, he’s more of a child than little Daisy herself, when he’s out of his usual bearings. I think he’s best off at home, with Jabez and Matildy Jane to look after him, when I can’t.”

And she sighed heavily, as if the responsibility were too much for her.

But the captain could not be brought to this view of the case. He was enjoying himself in his own way among the city sights and sounds.