“Who is it?” she cried. “Who do you think it is?”
“Maybe some neighbour,” said Mrs. T., “to wish us the compliments o' t' season.”
“If not old Father Christmas himself!” laughed David to Missy, in the wish that she should forgive herself, as he had forgiven her, for tearing up his letter. But Missy could only stare at the window-blind, behind which the knock had been repeated, and she was trembling very visibly indeed. Then the front-door opened, and it was Missy, not one of the family, that rushed out into the passage to see who it was. The family heard her shouting for joy:
“It's John William. It's only John William after all. Oh, you dear, dear old Jack!”
Very quickly she was back in the room, and down on the horsehair sofa, breathing heavily. John William followed in his town clothes.
“Yes, of course it's me. Good evening, all. Who did you think it was, Missy?”
“I thought it was visitors. What if it had been? Oh, I hate visitors, that's all.”
“Then I'm sorry to hear it,” remarked Mrs. Teesdale sourly, “for we have visitors coming to-morrow.”
“I hate 'em, too,” said John William wilfully.
“Then I'll thank you to keep your hates to yourselves,” cried Mrs. T. “It's very rude of you both. Your mother wouldn't have spoke so, Missy!”