Every one ought to be happy at Christmas. But there are many things
which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in
the Christmas holidays.
The Captain and his wife were sad, though it was Christmas Eve. Sad,
though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted
to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable
house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say,
everything that heart could desire. Sad, though they were good people,
whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods
alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and
body. Sad--and in the nursery this was held to be past all
reason--though the children were performing that ancient and most
entertaining play or Christmas Mystery of Good St. George of England,
known as "The Peace Egg," for their benefit and behoof alone.
The play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to
learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious
dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with wooden
swords. But though St. George looked bonny enough to warm any father's
heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by watching many a
parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though the Valiant
Slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the Doctor treading
accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the Captain
and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the mother
dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the King of Egypt
brought round after the performance.