Everybody had some little present for everybody else.

Mrs.Wade sent Clover a tall india-rubber plant in a china pot, which made a spire of green in the south window for the rest of the winter; and Clover had spent many odd moments and stitches in the fabrication of a gorgeous Mexican-worked sideboard cloth for the Hopes.
But of all Clover's offerings the one which pleased her most, as showing a close observation of her needs, came from Geoff Templestowe.

It was a prosaic gift, being a wagon-load of pinon wood for the fire; but the gnarled, oddly twisted sticks were heaped high with pine boughs and long trails of red-fruited kinnikinnick to serve as a Christmas dressing, and somehow the gift gave Clover a peculiar pleasure.
"How dear of him!" she thought, lifting one of the big pinon logs with a gentle touch; "and how like him to think of it! I wonder what makes him so different from other people.

He never says fine flourishing things like Thurber Wade, or abrupt, rather rude things like Clarence, or inconsiderate things like Phil, or satirical, funny things like the doctor; but he's always doing something kind.

He's a little bit like papa, I think; and yet I don't know.