Norah sat up in bed and felt for the electric switch. The room sprang into light as Jim came in.
“I had to come and bring your stocking,” he said. “Merry Christmas, little chap.”
“Merry Christmas, Jimmy dear.” Norah looked at the bulging stocking on her bed, and broke into laughter. “And you a full-blown Captain! Oh, Jimmy, are you ever going to grow up?”
“I trust not,” said Jim comfortably—“if it means getting any bigger than I am. But you’re not, either, so it doesn’t matter. Do you remember all the Christmases at Billabong when I had to bring you your stocking?”
“Do I remember!” echoed Norah scornfully. “But at Billabong it was daylight at four o’clock in the morning, and extremely hot—probably with a bush-fire or two thrown in. You’ll be frozen to death here. Turn on the electric stove, and we’ll be comfy.”
“That’s a brain-wave,” said Jim, complying. “I must admit I prefer an open fireplace and three-foot logs—but in a hurry those little contraptions of stoves are handy. Hold on now—I’ll get you something to put over your shoulders.”
“There’s a woolly jacket over there,” Norah said. “Let me have my property—I’m excited.” She possessed herself of the stocking and fished for its contents. “Chocolates!—and in war-time! Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Not much,” said Jim calmly, extracting a huge chocolate from the box. “I lived on swede turnips for six weeks, so I think the family deserves a few extras. Fish some more.”
Norah obeyed, and brought to light articles of a varied nature; a pair of silk stockings, a book on Housekeeping as a Science, a large turnip, artistically carved, a box of French candied fruit, a mob-cap and a pair of housemaids’ gloves, and, lastly, the cap of a shell, neatly made into a pin-tray.
“I did that in camp in Germany,” said Jim. “And I swore I’d put it into your Christmas stocking. Which I have done.”