“‘He knows all about thee now,’ said the good Mrs. Allen, with a look of strange wonder and pity on her pleasant face. ‘Sit down here child, and I will tell thee. Didst thou never hear about God?’
“‘Yes ma’am—’ said Clary, hesitatingly,—‘I believe I have. Mother says ‘God help us,’ sometimes. But we are very poor—nobody thinks much about us.’
“‘God is the helper of the poor and the father of the fatherless,’ said Mrs. Allen with a grave but gentle voice,—‘thee must not doubt that. Listen.—We had all sinned against God, and his justice said that we must all be punished,—that we must be miserable in this world, and when we die must go where no one can ever be happy. But though we were all so bad, God pitied us and loved us still—yet he could not forgive us, for he is perfectly just. It was as if we owed him a great debt, and until that debt was paid we could not be his children. But we had nothing to pay.
“‘Then the Son of God came down to earth, and bore all our sins and sorrows, and died for us, and paid our great debt with his own most precious blood.
“‘This is Jesus, the Saviour.’
“‘Yes ma’am,’ said Clary, whose heart had followed every word,—‘that’s what the verse said,—
‘Jesus the Saviour, is his name,—
He freely loves, and without end.”
“She stood as if forgetting there was any one in the room; her eyes fixed on the ground, and the quiet tears running down from them,—her hands clasped with an earnestness that shewed how eagerly her mind was taking in that ‘good news’—‘peace on earth and good will toward men’—which was now preached to her for the first time.
“Little Eunice looked wistfully at her mother, but neither of them spoke.
“At length Mrs. Allen came softly to Clary, and laying her hand on the bowed head, she said,
“‘Jesus is the Friend of sinners—but then they must strive to sin no more. Wilt thou do it? wilt thou love and obey the Saviour who has done so much for thee?’
“A sunbeam shot across the girl’s face as she looked up for one moment, and then bursting into tears, she said,
“‘Oh if I knew how!’
“‘Ask him and he will teach thee. Pray to Jesus whenever thou art in trouble—when thy sins are too strong for thee, and thy love to him too faint,—when thou art tired or sick or discouraged. Ask him to love thee and make thee his child—ask him to prepare a place for thee in heaven. For he hath said, ‘If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.’”
“Little Eunice had gone softly out of the room while her mother spoke, and now returned with a little book in her hand, which was quietly placed in Clary’s, after a look of assent from her mother.
“‘That’s a Bible,’—said Eunice, with a face of great pleasure. ‘And you may have it and keep it always. I wish I had a hymn book for you too, but I’ve only got this one, and my Sunday school teacher gave it to me last Sunday. But the Bible is the word of God, and it will tell you all about Jesus; and every bit of it is perfectly true. O you will love it so much!—everybody does who loves Jesus. And won’t you come and read in my hymn book sometimes?’
“‘Yes—come very often,’ said Mrs. Allen, ‘and we will talk of these things.’
“And with a heart too full to speak, Clary left the house.
“But oh what a different walk home!
‘How happy are they
Who the Saviour obey—’
“She could understand that now, for with the simple faith of a child she believed what had been told her, and with her whole heart received the Friend of sinners to be her friend. Her earnest prayer that night, her one desire, was to be his child and servant,—to obey him then became sweet work; and thenceforth through all Clary’s life, if any one had called her poor, she would have answered out of the little hymn book that Eunice gave her for a Christmas present,—
‘Who made my heaven secure,
Will here all good provide:
While Christ is rich, can I be poor?
What can I want beside?’”
“Is that all?” said Carl when he had waited about two minutes for more.
“That is the story of one of my leaves,” said the hymn book.
“Well, I want to hear about all the others,” said Carl—“so tell me.”
“I can’t”—said the hymn book. “It would take me six weeks.”
“Were you Clary’s hymn-book?” said Carl.
“No, I was the other one—that belonged to little Eunice. But years after that, several of us met in an old auction-room,—there I learned some of the particulars that I have told you.”
“What is an auction-room?” said Carl.
“It is a sort of intelligence-office for books,” replied the “Collection.” “There I got the situation of companion to a lady, and went on a long sea voyage. I had nothing to do but to comfort her, however.”
“And did you do it?” said Carl.
“Yes, very often,” said the hymn book. “Perhaps as much as anything else except her Bible.”
“Now, my pretty little boat,” said Carl the next day, “you shall tell me your story. I will hear you before that ugly old stocking.”
Carl was lying flat on his back on the floor, holding the boat up at arm’s length over his head, looking at it, and turning it about. It was a very complete little boat.
“I shall teach you not to trust to appearances,” said the boat.
“What do you mean?” said Carl.
“I mean that when you have looked at me you have got the best of me.”
“That’s very apt to be the way with pretty things,” said the stocking.
“It isn’t!” said Carl. For he had more than once known his mother call him a “pretty boy.”
“However that may be,” said the boat, “I can’t tell a story.”
“Can’t tell a story!—yes, you can,” said Carl. “Do it, right off.”
“I haven’t any to tell,” said the boat. “I was once of some use in the world, but now I’m of none, except to be looked at.”
“Yes, you are of use,” said Carl, “for I like you; and you can tell a story, too, if you’re a mind, as well as the pine cone.”
“The pine cone has had a better experience,” said the boat, “and has kept good society. For me, I have always lived on the outside of things, ever since I can remember, and never knew what was going on in the world, any more than I knew what was going on inside of my old tree. All I knew was, that I carried up sap for its branches—when it came down again, or what became of it, I never saw.”
“Where were you then?” said Carl.
“On the outside of a great evergreen oak in a forest of Valencia. I was a piece of its bark. I wish I was there now. But the outer bark of those trees gets dead after a while; and then the country-people come and cut it off and sell it out of the land.”
“And were you dead and sold off?” said Carl.
“To be sure I was. As fine a piece of cork as ever grew. I had been growing nine years since the tree was cut before.”
“Well but tell me your story,” said Carl.
“I tell you,” said the little cork boat, “I haven’t any story. There was nothing to be seen in the forest but the great shades of the kingly oaks, and the birds that revelled in the solitudes of their thick branches, and the martens, and such-like. It was fine there, though. The north winds, which the pine cone says so shake the heads of the fir-trees in his country, never trouble anything in mine. The snow never lay on the glossy leaves of my parent oak. But no Norrska lived there; or if there did, I never knew her. Nobody came near us, unless a stray peasant now and then passed through. And when I was cut down, I was packed up and shipped off to England, and shifted from hand to hand, till John Krinken took it into his head, years ago, to make a sort of cork jacket of me, with one or two of my companions; and I have been tumbling about in his possession ever since. He has done for me now. I am prettier than I ever was before, but I shall never be of any use again. I shall try the water, I suppose, again a few times for your pleasure, and then probably I shall try the fire, for the same.”
“The fire! No, indeed,” said Carl. “I’m not going to burn you up. I am going to see you sail this minute, since you won’t do anything else. You old stocking, you may wait till I come back. I don’t believe you’ve got much of a story.”
And Carl sprang up and went forthwith to the beach, to find a quiet bit of shallow water in some nook where it would be safe to float his cork boat. But the waves were beating pretty high that day, and the tide coming in, and, altogether there was too much commotion on the beach to suit the little ‘Santa Claus,’ as he had named her. So Carl discontentedly came back, and set up the little boat to dry, and turned him to the old stocking.
THE STOCKING’S STORY
“It’s too bad!” said Carl. “I’ve heard six stories and a little piece, and now there’s nothing left but this old stocking!”
“I believe I will not tell you my story at all,” said the stocking.
“But you shall,” said Carl, “or else I will cut you all up into little pieces.”
“Then you certainly will never hear it,” said the stocking.
“Well now”—said Carl. “What a disagreeable old stocking you are. Why don’t you begin at once?”
“I am tired of being always at the foot”—said the stocking;—“as one may say, at the fag end. And besides your way of speaking is not proper. I suppose you have been told as much before. This is not the way little boys used to speak when I was knit.”
“You are only a stocking,” said Carl.
“Everything that is worth speaking to at all, is worth speaking to politely,” replied the stocking.
“I can’t help it”—said Carl,—“you might tell me your story then. I’m sure one of my own red stockings would tell its story in a minute.”
“Yes,” said the grey stocking; “and the story would be, ‘Lived on little Carl’s foot all my life, and never saw anything.’”
“It wouldn’t be true then,” said Carl, “for I never wear ’em except on Sundays. Mother says she can’t afford it.”
“Nobody afforded it once,” said the stocking. “My ancestors were not heard of until ten or eleven hundred years ago, and then they were made of leather or linen. And then people wore cloth hose; and then some time in the sixteenth century silk stockings made their appearance in England. But there was never a pair of knit woollen stockings until the year 1564.”
“I say,” said Carl, “do stop—will you? and go on with your story.” And putting his hand down into the old stocking, he stretched it out as far as he could on his little fingers.
“You’d better amuse yourself in some other way,” said the stocking. “If my yarn should break, it will be the worse for your story.”
“Well why don’t you begin then?” said Carl, laying him down again.
“It’s not always pleasant to recount one’s misfortunes,” said the stocking. “And I have come down in the world sadly. You would hardly think it, I dare say, but I did once belong to a very good family.”
“So you do now,” said Carl. “There never was anybody in the world better than my mother; and father’s very good too.”
“Yes,” said the stocking again,—“Mrs. Krinken does seem to be quite a respectable sort of woman for her station in life,—very neat about her house, and I presume makes most excellent chowder. But you see, where I used to live, chowder had never even been heard of. I declare,” said the stocking, “I can hardly believe it myself,—I think my senses are getting blunted. I have lain in that chest so long with a string of red onions, that I have really almost forgotten what musk smells like! But my Lady Darlington always fainted away if anybody mentioned onions, so of course the old Squire never had them on the dinner table even. A fine old gentleman he was: not very tall, but as straight almost as ever; and with ruddy cheeks, and hair that was not white but silver colour. His hand shook a little sometimes, but his heart never—and his voice was a clear as a whistle. His step went cheerily about the house and grounds, although it was only to the music of his walking-stick; and music that was, truly, to all the poor people of the neighbourhood. His stick was like him. He would have neither gold nor silver head to it, but it was all of good English oak,—the top finely carved into a supposed likeness of Edward the Confessor.
“As for my lady, she was all stateliness,—very beautiful too, or had been; and the sound of her dress was like the wings of a wild bird.”
“I think I shall like to hear this story,” said Carl, settling himself on his box and patting his hands together once or twice.
“I dare say you will,” said the stocking,—“when I tell it to you. However– Well–”
“A great many years ago it was Christmas-eve at Squire Darlington’s, and the squire sat alone in his wide hall. Every window was festooned with ivy leaves and holly, which twisted about the old carving and drooped and hung round the silver sconces, and thence downward towards the floor. The silver hands of the sconces held tall wax candles, but they were not lit. The picture frames wore wreaths, from which the old portraits looked out gloomily enough,—not finding the adornment so becoming as they had done a century or so before; and even the Squire’s high-backed chair was crowned with a bunch of holly berries. There was no danger of their being in his way, for he rarely leaned back in his chair, but sat up quite straight, with one hand on his knee and the other on the arm of the chair. On that particular evening his hand rested on me; for I and my companion stocking had been put on for the first time.”
“I don’t see how he could get his hand on his stocking,” said Carl, “if he sat up. Look—I couldn’t begin to touch mine.”
“You needn’t try to tell me anything about stockings,” replied that article of dress somewhat contemptuously. “I know their limits as well as most people. But in those days, Master Carl, gentlemen wore what they called small-clothes—very different from your new-fangled pantaloons.”
“I don’t wear pantaloons,” said Carl,—“I wear trousers.” But the stocking did not heed the interruption.
“The small-clothes reached only to the knee—a little above or a little below—and so met the long stockings half way. Some people wore very fanciful stockings, of different colours and embroidered; but Squire Darlington’s were always of grey woollen yarn, very fine and soft as you see I am, and tied above the knee with black ribbons. And his shoes were always black, with; large black bows and silver buckles.
“He sat there alone in the wide hall, with one hand upon me and his eyes fixed upon the fire waiting for the arrival of the Yule Clog. For in those days, the night before Yule or Christmas the chief fire in the house was built with an immense log, which was cut and brought in with great rejoicing and ceremony, and lighted with a brand saved from the log of last year. All the servants in the house had gone out to help roll the log and swell the noise, and the fire of the day had burnt down to a mere bed of coals; and the hall was so still you could almost hear the ivy leaves rustle on the old wall outside. I don’t know but the Squire did.”
“What did he stay there for?” said Carl. “Was he thinking?”
“He might have been,” said the stocking,—“indeed I rather think he was, for he stroked and patted me two or three times. Or he might have been listening the wind sing its Christmas song.”
“Can the wind sing?” said Carl.
“Ay—and sigh too. Most of all about the time of other people’s holidays. It’s a wild, sighing kind of a song at best—whistled and sung and sighed together,—sometimes round the house, and sometimes through a keyhole. I heard what it said that night well enough. You won’t understand it, but this was it:—
‘Christmas again! Christmas again!
With its holly berries so bright and red.
They gleam in the wood, they grow by the lane,—
O hath not Christmas a joyful tread?
Christmas again! Christmas again!
What does it find? and what does it bring?
And what does it miss that should remain?—
O Christmas time is a wonderful thing!
Christmas again! Christmas again!
There are bright green leaves on the holly tree,—
But withered leaves fly over the plain,
And the forests are brown and bare to see.
Christmas again! Christmas again!
The snow lies light and the wind is cold.
But the wind it reacheth some hearts of pain,—
And the snow—it falleth on heads grown old.
Christmas again! Christmas again!
What kindling fires flash through the hall!
The flames may flash, but the shadows remain,—
And where do the shadows this night fall?
Christmas again! Christmas again!—
It looks through the windows—it treads the floor.
Seeking for what earth could not retain—
Watching for those who will come no more.
Christmas again! Christmas again!
Why doth not the pride of the house appear?
Where is the sound of her silken train?
And that empty chair—what doeth it here?
Christmas again! Christmas again!
With hearts as light as did ever bound;
And feet as pretty as ever were fain
To tread a measure the hall around.
Christmas again! Christmas again!—
Oh thoughts, be silent! who called for ye?
Must Christmas time be a time of pain
Because of the loved, from pain set free?
Christmas again! Christmas again!—
Once Christmas and joy came hand in hand.
The hall may its holiday look regain,—
But those empty chairs must empty stand.’
“The wind took much less time to sing the song than I have taken to tell it,” said the stocking,—“a low sigh round the house and a whistle or two, told all. Then suddenly a door at the lower end of the hall flew open, and a boy sprang in, exclaiming—
“‘Grandfather, it’s coming!’
“He was dressed just after the fashion of the old Squire, only with delicate white stockings and black velvet small-clothes; while his long-flapped waistcoat was gaily flowered, and his shoes had crimson rosettes. And almost as he spoke, a side-door opened and my lady glided in, her dress rustling softly as she came; while the wind rushed in after her, and tossed and waved the feathers in her tall headdress.
“Then was heard a distant murmur of shouts and laughter, and young Edric clapped his hands and then stood still to listen; and presently the whole troop of servants poured into the hall from that same door at the lower end. All were dressed in the best and gayest clothes they had,—the women wore ivy wreaths, and the men carried sprigs of holly at their buttonholes. First came a number bearing torches; then many others rolling and pulling and pushing the great log, on which one of the men, whimsically dressed, was endeavouring to keep his seat; while every other man, woman, and child about the place, crowded in after.
“Then the log was rolled into the great fire-place, and duly lighted; and everybody clapped hands and rejoiced in its red glow, and Master Edric shouted as loud as the rest.
“‘Edric,’ said my lady when the hall was quiet once more, though not empty, for all the household were to spend Christmas eve there together,—‘Edric, go take a partner and dance us a minuet.’
“And Edric walked round the hall till he came to little May Underwood, the forester’s daughter; and then bringing the white stockings and the crimson rosettes close side by side together, and making her a low bow, he took her hand and led her out upon the floor.
“The Yule Clog was in a full blaze now, and the clear light shone from end to end of the hall; falling upon the bright floor and the long row of servants and retainers that were ranged around, and glossily reflected from the sharp holly leaves and its bright red berries. The old portraits did not light up much, and looked very near as gloomy as ever; but a full halo of the fireshine was about the Squire’s chair, and upon my lady as she stood beside him. Two or three of the serving-men played a strange old tune upon as strange old instruments; and the forester now and then threw in a few wild notes of his bugle, that sounded through the house and aroused all the echoes: but the wind sighed outside still.
“And all this while the little dancers were going through the slow, graceful steps of their pretty dance; with the most respectful bows and courtesies, the most ceremonious presenting of hands and acceptance of the same, the most graceful and complicated turns and bends; till at last when the music suddenly struck into a quick measure, Edric presented his right hand to little May, and they danced gayly forward to where my lady stood near the Squire, and made their low reverence—first to her and then to each other. Then Edric led his little partner back to her seat and returned to his grandmother. For my lady was his grandmother, and he had no parents.
“As the Yule Clog snapped and crackled and blazed higher and higher, even so did the mirth of all in the great hall. They talked and laughed and sang and played games, and not an echo in the house could get leave to be silent.
“All of a sudden, in the midst of the fun, a little boy dressed like Robin Redbreast in a dark coat and bright red waistcoat, opened one of the hall doors; and just showing himself for a moment, he flung the door clear back and an old man entered. His hair was perfectly white, and so was his beard, which reached down to his waist. On his head was a crown of yew and ivy, and in his hand a long staff topped with holly berries; his dress was a long brown robe which fell down about his feet, and on it were sewed little spots of white cloth to represent snow. He made a low bow to the Squire and my lady, and when Robin Redbreast had discreetly closed the door so far that but a little wind could come in, he began to sing in a queer little cracked voice,—
“Oh! here come I, old Father Christmas, welcome or not,
“I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.
“Make room, room, I say,
“That I may lead Mince Pye this way.
“Walk in Mince Pye, and act thy part,
“And show the gentles thy valiant heart.’
“With that Robin opened the door again and another figure came in, dressed like a woman in a dark purple gown bordered with light brownish yellow. A large apple was fastened on top of her head, and she wore bunches of raisins at her ears instead of ear-rings; while her necklace was of large pieces of citron strung together, and her bracelets of cloves and allspice and cinnamon. In her hand she carried a large wooden sword.”
“What was that for?” said Carl, who had listened with the most intense interest.
“Why to fight off the people that wanted to make her up into real mince pie, I suppose,” said the stocking. “She came into the room singing,—
“Room, room, you gallant souls, give me room to rhyme,
“I will show you some festivity this Christmas time.
“Bring me the man that bids me stand,
“Who says he’ll cut me down with an audacious hand;
“I’ll cut him and hew him as small as a fly,
“And see what he’ll do then to make his mince pye.
“Walk in, St. George.’
“Oh! in come I St. George, the man of courage bold.
“With my sword and buckler I have won three crowns of gold;
“I fought the fiery Dragon, and brought him to the slaughter,
“I saved a beauteous Queen and a King of England’s daughter.
“If thy mind is high, my mind is bold;
“If thy blood is hot, I will make it cold.’”
“What did he want to do that for?” said Carl.
“O in the days when St. George lived,” replied the stocking, “the more men a man had killed the more people thought of him; and this man was trying to make himself like St. George. He had a great pasteboard helmet on his head, with a long peacock’s feather streaming from the top of it, and a wooden sword, and a tin-covered shield on which were nailed clusters of holly berries in the figure of a cross. His shoes were of wood too, and his jacket and small-clothes of buckskin, with sprigs of yew fastened down all the seams, and great knots of red and green ribbons at the knees. As soon as he had sung his song he began the fight with Mince Pye, and a dreadful fight it was, if one might judge by the noise; also Mince Pye’s sword became quite red with the holly berries. But St. George let his shield take all the blows, and when Mince Pye had spent her strength upon it, he thrust at her with his sword and down she came.”
“Who? Mince Pye?” said Carl. “Oh that’s too bad!”
“Mince Pye thought so too,” said the stocking, “for she cried out,—
“Oh! St. George, spare my life”—
“Then said old Father Christmas,—
“Is no Doctor to be found
“To cure Mince Pye, who is bleeding on the ground?”
“Was there any?” said Carl.
“There was somebody who called himself one. He came running right into the hall the minute old Father Christmas called for him, and you never saw such a queer little figure. He had an old black robe, and a black cap on his head, and a black patch over one eye.”
“What was that for?” said Carl.
“He had been curing himself, I suppose,” said the stocking. “And it would seem that he wasn’t satisfied with any of his features, for he had put on a long pasteboard nose painted red, and a pointed pasteboard chin. In his hand he carried a great basket of bottles. If one might believe his own account, he was a doctor worth having:—
“Oh! yes, there is a doctor to be found
“To cure Mince Pye, who is bleeding on the ground.
“I cure the sick of every pain,
“And none of them are ever sick again.”
“Father Christmas thought it must cost a good deal to be cured after that fashion, so like a prudent man he said,—
“Doctor, what is thy fee?”
“And the Doctor probably didn’t like to be questioned, for he answered,—
“Ten pounds is my fee;
“But fifteen I must take of thee
“Before I set this gallant free.”
“But as it was necessary that Mince Pye should be cured, Father Christmas only said,—
“Work thy will, Doctor.”
“Then the Doctor took a bottle out of his basket, and began to dance and sing round Mince Pye,—
“I have a little bottle by my side,
“The fame of which spreads far and wide;
“Drop a drop on this poor man’s nose.”
“And with that Mince Pye jumped up as well as ever.”
“But that wasn’t all?” said Carl. “What else?”
“That was not quite all,” said the stocking, “for another man came in, with a great basket of dolls at his back and a tall red cap on his head. And he sang, too,—
“‘Oh! in come I, little saucy Jack,
“With all my family at my back;
“Christmas comes but once a-year,
“And when it does it brings good cheer,
“Roast beef, plum pudding, and Mince Pye—
“Who likes that any better than I?
“Christmas makes us dance and sing;
“Money in the purse is a very fine thing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give us what you please.’
“Then Squire Darlington and my lady each took out some money, and Edric carried it to the masquers, and as he hadn’t any money himself he told them that he was very much obliged to them; then they went off.”
“What did they give them money for?” said Carl.
“O they expected it—that was what they came for. People used to go about in that way to the rich houses at Christmas time, to get a little money by amusing the gentlefolks.”
“I s’pose they were very much amused,” said Carl with a little sigh.
“Very much—especially Edric. And after they were gone he came and stood before the great fire and thought it all over, smiling to himself with pleasure.
“‘Edric,’ said my lady, ‘it is time for you to go to bed.’
“‘Yes grandmother—but I’m afraid I can’t go to sleep.’
“‘Why not?’ said Squire Darlington. ‘What are you smiling at?’
“‘O we’ve had such a splendid time, grandfather!—the people were dressed so finely—and didn’t Mince Pye fight well? and wasn’t the Doctor queer! And I’m sure my stocking will be as full as anything.’
“Squire Darlington drew the boy towards him, and seated him on his knee while he spoke thus; and passing his hand caressingly over the young joyous head, and smoothing down the brown hair that was parted—child fashion—over the middle of the forehead, and came curling down upon the lace frill, he looked into Edric’s face with a world of pleasure and sympathy.
“‘And so you’ve enjoyed the evening, dear boy?’ he said.
“‘O yes! grandfather—so much! I’m sure Christmas is the very happiest time of the whole year!’
“Squire Darlington stroked down the hair again, and looked in the bright eyes, but with something of wistfulness now; and without stirring his hand from the boy’s head, his look went towards the fire.
“The Yule Clog was blazing there steadily, although it now shewed a great front of glowing coals that yet had not fallen from their place. A clear red heat was all that part of the log, and hardly to be distinguished from the bed of coals below; while bright points of flame curled and danced and ran scampering up the chimney, as if they were playing Christmas games. But each end of the log yet held out against the fire, and had not even lost its native brown.
“The Squire looked there with an earnest gaze that was not daunted by the glowing light; but his brows were slightly raised, and though the caressing movement of his hand was repeated, it seemed now to keep time to sorrowful music; and his lips had met on that boundary line between smiles and tears. Presently a little hand was laid against his cheek, and a little lace ruffle brushed lightly over its furrows.
“‘Grandfather, what’s the matter? What makes you look grave?’
“The Squire looked at him, and taking the hand in his own patted it softly against his face.
“‘The matter? my dear,’ he said. ‘Why the matter is that Christmas has come and gone a great many times.’
“‘But that’s good, grandfather,’ said Edric, clapping his hands together. ‘Just think! there’ll be another Christmas in a year, only a year, and we had one only a year ago—and such a nice time!’
“‘Only a year’—repeated the old man slowly. ‘No Edric, it is only sixty years.’
“‘What do you mean, grandfather?’ said the boy softly.
“‘Sixty years ago, my dear,’ said Squire Darlington, ‘there was just such a Yule Clog as that burning in this very fire-place. And the windows, and picture frames—there were not quite so many then—were trimmed with holly berries and yew from the same trees from which these wreaths have come to-day. And this old chair stood here, and everything in this old hall looked just as it does now.’
“‘Well, grandfather?’ said Edric catching his breath a little,—and the wind gave one of its lone sighs through the keyhole.
“‘Well my dear—Instead of one dear little couple on the floor’—and the old man drew the boy closer to him—‘there were six,—as merry-eyed and light-footed little beings as ever trod this green earth. At the head I stood with your grandmother, Edric—a dear little thing she was!’ said Squire Darlington with a kindly look towards my lady, whose eyes were cast down now for a wonder, and her lips trembling a little. ‘Her two brothers and my two, and the orphan boy that we loved like a brother; his sister, and my four little sisters—precious children! that they were—made up the rest. Light feet, and soft voices, and sweet laughter—they went through this old hall like a troop of fairies, I was going to say,—more like a ray of pure human happiness.