NOW it is coming near the end of our treasure‐seeking, and the end was so wonderful that now nothing is like it used to be. It is like as if our fortunes had been in an earthquake, and after those, you know, everything comes out wrong‐way up.

The day after the Uncle speared the pudding with us opened in gloom and sadness. But you never know. It was destined to be a day when things happened. Yet no sign of this appeared in the early morning. Then all was misery and upsetness. None of us felt quite well; I don’t know why: and Father had one of his awful colds, so Dora persuaded him not to go to London, but to stay cosy and warm in the study, and she made him some gruel. She makes it better than Eliza does; Eliza’s gruel is all little lumps, and when you suck them it is dry oatmeal inside.
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We kept as quiet as we could, and I made H.O. do some lessons, like the G.B. had advised us to. But it was very dull. There are some days when you seem to have got to the end of all the things that could ever possibly happen to you, and you feel you will spend all the rest of your life doing dull things just the same way. Days like this are generally wet days. But, as I said, you never know.

Then Dicky said if things went on like this he should run away to sea, and Alice said she thought it would be rather nice to go into a convent. H.O. was a little disagreeable because of the powder Eliza had given him, so he tried to read two books at once, one with each eye, just because No?l wanted one of the books, which was very selfish of him, so it only made his headache worse. H.O. is getting old enough to learn by experience that it is wrong to be selfish, and when he complained about his head Oswald told him whose fault it was, because I am older than he is, and it is my duty to show him where he is wrong. But he began to cry, and then Oswald had to cheer him up because of Father wanting to be quiet. So Oswald said—

“They’ll eat H.O. if you don’t look out!”
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And Dora said Oswald was too bad.

Of course Oswald was not going to interfere again, so he went to look out of the window and see the trams go by, and by and by H.O. came and looked out too, and Oswald, who knows when to be generous and forgiving, gave him a piece of blue pencil and two nibs, as good as new, to keep.

As they were looking out at the rain splashing on the stones in the street they saw a four‐wheeled cab come lumbering up from the way the station is. Oswald called out—

“Here comes the coach of the Fairy Godmother. It’ll stop here, you see if it doesn’t!”

So they all came to the window to look. Oswald had only said that about stopping and he was stricken with wonder and amaze when the cab really did stop. It had boxes on the top and knobby parcels sticking out of the window, and it was something like going away to the seaside and something like the gentleman who takes things about in a carriage with the wooden shutters up, to sell to the drapers” shops. The cabman got down, and some one inside handed out ever so many parcels of different shapes and sizes, and the cabman stood holding them in his arms and grinning over them.
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Dora said, “It is a pity some one doesn’t tell him this isn’t the house.” And then from inside the cab some one put out a foot feeling for the step, like a tortoise’s foot coming out from under his shell when you are holding him off the ground, and then a leg came and more parcels, and then No?l cried—

“It’s the poor Indian!”

And it was.

Eliza opened the door, and we were all leaning over the banisters. Father heard the noise of parcels and boxes in the hall, and he came out without remembering how bad his cold was. If you do that yourself when you have a cold they call you careless and naughty. Then we heard the poor Indian say to Father—

“I say, Dick, I dined with your kids yesterday—as I daresay they’ve told you. Jolliest little cubs I ever saw! Why didn’t you let me see them the other night? The eldest is the image of poor Janey—and as to young Oswald, he’s a man! If he’s not a man, I’m a nigger! Eh!—what? And Dick, I say, I shouldn’t wonder if I could find a friend to put a bit into that business of yours—eh?”

Then he and Father went into the study and the door was shut—and we went down and page: 285 looked at the parcels. Some were done up in old, dirty newspapers, and tied with bits of rag, and some were in brown paper and string from the shops, and there were boxes. We wondered if the Uncle had come to stay and this was his luggage, or whether it was to sell. Some of it smelt of spices, like merchandise—and one bundle Alice felt certain was a bale. We heard a hand on the knob of the study door after a bit, and Alice said—

“Fly!” and we all got away but H.O., and the Uncle caught him by the leg as he was trying to get upstairs after us.

“Peeping at the baggage, eh?” said the Uncle, and the rest of us came down because it would have been dishonourable to leave H.O. alone in a scrape, and we wanted to see what was in the parcels.

“I didn’t touch,” said H.O. “Are you coming to stay? I hope you are.”

“No harm done if you did touch,” said the good, kind, Indian man to all of us. “For all these parcels are for you.”

I have several times told you about our being dumb with amazement and terror and joy, and things like that, but I never remember us being dumber than we were when he said this.
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The Indian Uncle went on: “I told an old friend of mine what a pleasant dinner I had with you, and about the threepenny bit, and the divining‐rod, and all that, and he sent all these odds and ends as presents for you. Some of the things came from India.”

“Have you come from India, Uncle?” No?l asked; and when he said “Yes” we were all very much surprised, for we never thought of his being that sort of Indian. We thought he was the Red kind, and of course his not being accounted for his ignorance of beavers and things.

He got Eliza to help, and we took all the parcels into the nursery and he undid them and undid them and undid them, till the papers lay thick on the floor. Father came too and sat in the Guy Fawkes chair. I cannot begin to tell you all the things that kind friend of Uncle’s had sent us. He must be a very agreeable person.

There were toys for the kids and model engines for Dick and me, and a lot of books, and Japanese china tea sets for the girls, red and white and gold—there were sweets by the pound and by the box—and long yards and yards of soft silk from India, to make frocks for the girls—and a real Indian sword for page: 287 Oswald and a book of Japanese pictures for No?l, and some ivory chessmen for Dicky: the castles of the chessmen are elephant‐and‐castles. There is a railway station called that; I never knew what it meant before. The brown paper and string parcels had boxes of games in them—and big cases of preserved fruits and things. And the shabby old newspaper parcels and the boxes had the Indian things in. I never saw so many beautiful things before. There were carved fans and silver bangles and strings of amber beads, and necklaces of uncut gems—turquoises and garnets, the Uncle said they were—and shawls and scarves of silk, and cabinets of brown and gold, and ivory boxes and silver trays, and brass things. The Uncle kept saying, “This is for you, young man,” or “Little Alice will like this fan,”or “Miss Dora would look well in this green silk, I think. Eh!—what?”

And Father looked on as if it was a dream, till the Uncle suddenly gave him an ivory paper‐knife and a box of cigars, and said, “My old friend sent you these, Dick; he’s an old friend of yours too, he says.” And he winked at my Father, for H.O. and I saw him. And my Father winked back, though he has always told us not to.
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That was a wonderful day. It was a treasure, and no mistake! I never saw such heaps and heaps of presents, like things out of a fairy‐tale—and even Eliza had a shawl. Perhaps she deserved it, for she did cook the rabbit and the pudding; and Oswald says it is not her fault if her nose turns up and she does not brush her hair. I do not think Eliza likes brushing things. It is the same with the carpets. But Oswald tries to make allowances even for people who do not wash their ears.

The Indian Uncle came to see us often after that, and his friend always sent us something. Once he tipped us a sovereign each—the Uncle brought it; and once he sent us money to go to the Crystal Palace, and the Uncle took us; and another time to a circus; and when Christmas was near the Uncle said—

“You remember when I dined with you, some time ago, you promised to dine with me some day, if I could ever afford to give a dinner party. Well, I’m going to have one—a Christmas party. Not on Christmas Day, because every one goes home then—but on the day after. Cold mutton and rice pudding. You’ll come? Eh!—what?”

We said we should be delighted, if Father had no objection, because that is the proper page: 289 thing to say, and the poor Indian, I mean the Uncle, said, “No, your Father won’t object—he’s coming too, bless your soul!”

We all got Christmas presents for the Uncle. The girls made him a handkerchief case and a comb bag, out of some of the pieces of silk he ha............