I rushed away up to my own room. In spite of myself, my feelings were arrested by Alex’s words. For a moment I knelt down and said to God, “Please let me feel kindly towards my step-mother; please let me have a really nice Christmas Day.”
After that it was wonderful how my spirits were soothed and how much happier I felt. Christmas Eve ended in fun and games and all sorts of preparations for the merriest Christmas which was to follow, and we all went to bed in high good-humour.
Part 2, Chapter IV.
Christmas Day.
My presents were much appreciated, although it is true that father looked somewhat dubiously at his inkpot. He asked me how it was opened. I described the exact method by which he was to press the spring, and he remarked then that it would take time.
“But,” I said, “you see there is a kind of sponge with a leather cover to it, which presses down into the bottle and prevents every scrap of air from getting in, so that the ink keeps much longer.”
“Yes; but the period it takes from one’s existence!” remarked father. Then he glanced at me. “Never mind,” he said; “you meant well. I am always willing to admit it when any one means well.”
Now, I had actually spent a pound of my money on this inkstand of father’s—one-tenth of my quarter’s allowance—and all the praise I got was that I meant well.