"Go on," cried Matilda; "p'raps the rest will tell."
So Matthew hastened on, "'are s-e-l-e-c-t-e-d—'" Here Matthew felt obliged to omit two lines. "'The o-v-e-r-c-o-a-t,'"—somehow Matthew knew by intuition what that spelt,—"'and the red t-i-p-p-e-t are for your biggest boy—'" Down went the letter to the floor, to be pounced on by Matilda's greedy fingers. Matthew, regardless of this, swept Jane aside, and pawing each bundle this way and that, twitched the strings off, making havoc generally in the piles of presents.
"'Tain't here; she's forgotten to send it," he howled, and, "biggest boy" though he was, he threw himself flat on the floor and cried as hard as he could. Everybody stopped in dismay to hear him.
"Hee-hee-hee!" giggled a voice close to the broken window-pane. Elvira flapped up both arms in the overcoat sleeves, and bobbed her head, tied up in the red tippet.
"Oh!" screamed all the children in such a voice that Matthew raised his head a minute. The next he was flinging wide the crazy old door.
"Don't you wish you may get 'em?" screamed Elvira, making quick time off up the bank, and flapping the coat sleeves derisively.
"That's mine, that coat and tippet!" screamed Matthew, flying after her; "mine—mine!"