The Coles had never been a good-looking family.
He stood in front of the fireplace now as he had seen his father do, his short legs apart, his head up, and his hands behind his back.
"Now, Master Jeremy," the Jampot continued, "you may be eight years old, but it isn't a reason for disobedience the very first minute, and, of course, your bath is ready and you catching your death with naked feet, which you've always been told to put your slippers on and not to keep the bath waiting, when there's Miss Helen and Miss Mary, as you very well know, and breakfast coming in five minutes, which there's sausages this morning, because it's your birthday, and them all getting cold--" "Sausages!" He was across the floor in a moment, had thrown off his nightshirt and was in his bath.

Sausages! He was translated into a world of excitement and splendour.

They had sausages so seldom, not always even on birthdays, and to-day, on a cold morning, with a crackling fire and marmalade, perhaps--and then all the presents.
Oh, he was happy.

As he rubbed his back with the towel a wonderful glowing Christian charity spread from his head to his toes and tingled through every inch of him.

Helen should sit in the chair when she pleased; Mary should be allowed to dress and undress the large woollen dog, known as "Sulks," his own especial and beloved property, so often as she wished; Jampot should poke the twisted end of the towel in his ears and brush his hair with the hard brushes, and he would not say a word.