Presently, as she was putting out the light, she heard Marietta at the door.
"Mis' Fernald, Peter Piper's got back in this part o' the house, somehow, and I can't lay hands on him. Beats all how cute that cat is. Seem's if he knows when I'm goin' to put him out in the wood-shed. I don't think likely he'll do no harm, but I thought I'd tell you, so 'f you heard any queer noises in the night you'd know it was Peter."
"Very well, Marietta"—the soft voice came back to the schemer on the other side of the door. "Peter will be all right, wherever he is. I shan't be alarmed if I hear him."
"All right, Mis' Fernald; I just thought I'd let you know," and the guileful one went grinning away.
There was a long silence in the quiet sleeping-room. Then, out of the darkness, came this little colloquy:
"Emeline, you aren't getting to sleep."
"I—know I'm not, John. I—Christmas Eve keeps one awake, somehow. It always did."
"Yes.... I don't suppose the children realise at all, do they?"
"Oh, no—oh, no! They don't realise—they never will, till—they're here themselves. It's all right. I think—I think at least Guy will be down to-morrow, don't you?"