THE RETURN OF THE CHRISTMAS CHILDREN
"Holy night, peaceful and blest," rose Nora Wingate's clear voice, high
and sweet on the still winter air. A chorus of fresh young voices took
up the second line of the beautiful hymn, filling the calm of the snowy
night with exquisite harmony.
A little old lady, with hair as white as the snow itself, her cheeks
bright with color, her eyes very tender, appeared in the library window
as the song ended. She had concealed herself in the folds of the curtain
while the singing went on, fearing it might come to a sudden stop should
she reveal herself.
Her appearance, however, inspired the singers to fresh effort, for,
immediately they spied her, led by Nora, they burst into the old English
carol, "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen." They sang it with their rosy,
eager faces raised to her, a world of fellowship in every note, while
she stood motionless and listened, a smile of supreme love and content
making her delicate features radiant.
As they ended this second carol she raised the window. "Come in, this
minute, every one of you blessed children. You can't possibly know how
happy you have made me this Christmas Eve."
"Coming right in the window," declared Hippy, as he made an ineffectual
spring and failed to land on the wide sill.
"Just as I expected," jeered Reddy Brooks, dragging him back. "You might
know Hippy would spoil everything. We all start out, on our best
behavior, to sing carols to our fairy godmother. Then at the most
effective moment, when we are feeling almost inspired, he ruins the
whole effect by trying to jump in the window."
"He might as well try to jump through a ten-inch hoop," seconded David.
"He'd be just as successful."
"They are slandering me, Nora," whimpered Hippy, "and I am the sweetest
carol singer of them all. Protect me, Nora. Tell Reddy Brooks it was his
singing that nearly ruined that last carol. Tell him his voice is as
loud and obnoxious as his hair. And tell David Nesbit that--" Hippy gave
a sudden agile bound out of reach of Reddy's avenging hands, and tore
across the lawn and around the corner of the house, shrieking a wild,
"Good-bye, Nora. Remember I've always been a good, kind husband to you.
Don't forget me, Nora."
[Illustration: "Holy Night, Peaceful and Blest."]
"I'll pay him yet for that remark about my obnoxious hair," grinned
Reddy, as the carol singers trooped across the lawn and into the house.
Mrs. Gray met her Christmas children with welcoming arms. "I am going to
kiss every one of you," she announced.
"We are willing," assured David, and she was passed from one pair of
arms to another, emerging from this wholesale embrace, flushed and
laughing.
"You didn't kiss me," observed a plaintive voice from behind the
portieres that divided the library from the hall. Hippy's round face was
thrust engagingly into view. He had slipped in the side door,
unobserved.
"There he is, Reddy. How did he get in so quietly?" David took a
vengeful step forward. The face disappeared.
"Just wait until I hang up my overcoat," threatened Reddy.
"Don't let him hang it up, Nora. If you value the safety of your
husband, make him stand and hold it," pleaded the plaintive voice.
"Here, Reddy, give me your hat and coat," ordered Nora cruelly.
"Ha! I defy you." Hippy suddenly bounced from behind the curtain into
the midst of the group in the hall. "I would defy forty David Nesbits
and fifty Reddy Brooks for a kiss from my fair lady." He bowed before
Mrs. Gray.
"Bless you, Hippy," she said, as she kissed his fat cheek, "that was
nicely said."
"I am always saying nice things," assured Hippy airily. "Better still
they are always true things. There are some persons, though, who can't
stand the white light of truth. May I rely upon you for protection, Mrs.
Gray? Alas, I am now alone in the world. The person who is supposed to
have my welfare at heart is hob-nobbing with my traducers. Miriam Nesbit
used to be a fairly good protector, but she hasn't done much along that
line lately."
"Come on, Hippy. I'll take care of you. I'm sorry I've neglected you."
Miriam held out her hand. Hippy hung his head and simpered. Then with
his Cheshire cat grin he seized Miriam's hand and toddled beside her
into the library. The others followed, laughing at the ridiculous
spectacle he presented.
"Both our fairy godmother and I are disgusted with you," taunted Nora as
she directed a glance of withering scorn at Hippy, now calmly seated
beside Miriam on the big leather davenport, the picture of triumph. "You
asked her to protect you; then you deserted her and deliberately went
over to Miriam for help."
"Wasn't that awful?" deplored Hippy. "Such inconstancy makes me blush."
"You couldn't blush if your life depended upon it," was David Nesbit's
scathing comment.
"There are others," retorted Hippy.
David glared ferociously at the grinning Hippy.
"There are others," went on Hippy blandly, "who, I might venture to say,
have even greater trouble in producing that much lauded rarity, a blush.
But what does blushing mean? It means turning very red. It isn't always
confined to one's face, either. I once knew a man, a rare creature,
whose very hair blushed. That is, it turned red when he was an infant
and blushed more deeply every year. In fact it never quit blushing."
"I once knew a person, a senseless creature, who didn't know when he was
well off," began Reddy, in an ominous voice. "From the time he learned
to talk he made ill-natured remarks about his friends. But at last he
came to a terrible end. He----"
"I never knew him," interrupted Hippy. "I'm not interested in persons I
don't know. I'd rather talk to Grace. I've known her for a long time,
and we've always been on friendly terms. Come and sit beside me,
Grace."
"Jilted," declared Miriam tragically, as Grace accepted the invitation
and seated herself on Hippy's other side.
"Not a bit of it. I believe in preparedness. The
constant-reinforcements-arriving-every-minute idea appeals to me. You
are both bulwarks of defense."
"I'm surprised that anything except eats appeals to you." This from
Reddy.
"'Eats' did you say? What are eats? Or, better, _where_ are eats?"
demanded Hippy, beaming hopefully at Mrs. Gray.
"They will appear very soon, Hippy," assured Mrs. Gray. "I sent a
dispatch to the kitchen the moment you finished singing."
"For goodness' sake, Grace and Miriam, keep Hippy quiet for a while. No
one else has had a chance to say a word," complained David. "I'd like to
hear a few remarks on 'Life in Chicago' by our estimable pals, Jessica
and Reddy."
"Life in Chicago can't compare with life in dear old Oakdale," said
Jessica. "In spite of the theatres, concerts and all the pleasures that
a big city offers one, Reddy and I are always a little lonely."
"That is because you and Reddy miss me," observed Hippy with positive
modesty.
"You're right, old man. We do miss you," agreed Reddy, with
unmistakable sincerity. For once Hippy forgot to be funny. "You aren't
the only ones who miss the old guard," he answered seriously; then he
added in his usual humorous strain, "I hope some day the Eight Originals
Plus Two and all their friends will emigrate to a happy island and
colonize it. Then there won't be any missed faces or any letter writing
to do, for that matter. David and Reddy can run the business of the
colony and see that we aren't cheated when we trade glass beads and
other little trinkets with the savages. Of course there will be a few
moth-eaten old cannibals. Tom can classify the trees of the forest and
make the obstreperous beasts and reptiles behave. I will represent the
law. I will settle all disputes and administer justice. I'll be a
regular old Father William, like the one in 'Through the Looking Glass,'
I always did love that poem, especially this verse:
"'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife.
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted me all of my life.'"
Nora pretended to pay no attention to Hippy, who waited for her to
protest, an expansive smile wreathing his fat face. "She didn't
understand," he said sadly, after beaming at Nora in vain. "There's no
use in trying to explain. I suppose I'll have to give her an appointment
of some kind on my island. Nora, you may have charge of me. Isn't that a
noble mission? Still she doesn't answer. Oh, well, never mind, I'll go
right on appointing."
"Mrs. Gray, you will be the queen, and Grace can be prime minister. Anne
can have charge of the amusements, and Miriam can help her. Miriam has a
decided leaning toward the drama."
The color in Miriam's cheeks suddenly deepened at this apparently
innocent remark. "I don't think I like your island idea very well," she
said lightly. "I'd much rather have the Originals live right here in
Oakdale." She rose and strolled across the room to where Jessica sat.
"It's not the island idea. It's the dramatic idea that Miriam objects to
discussing," confided Hippy in a low tone to Grace.
"How did you find it out?" asked Grace.
"First of all by observation, my child. Second, through David. He knows
it, too. Southard told him. They have seen a good deal of each other
since the Nesbits have lived in New York. David thinks him worthy of
Miriam."
"I knew he cared. I wonder if Miriam does? She never mentions Mr.
Southard. I hope she loves him. It is so hard when one cares and the
other doesn't." Grace's gray eyes grew sad. Conversation languished
between Hippy and Grace for a little. Then with a half sigh Grace rose,
"I am going to ask Nora to sing," she said.
Before she had time to carry out her intention John appeared pushing a
small table on wheels ahead of him. Its shelves were laden with
sandwiches, olives, salted nuts and delicious fancy cakes, while a maid
followed him with a chocolate service.
Mrs. Gray poured the chocolate, and Anne, always her right-hand man,
assisted her in serving it. Grace, with her ever-present youthfulness of
spirit, found trundling the table about the room a most pleasing
diversion. They were a very merry little company, entering into the joy
of being together with all their hearts, and deeply thankful for the
opportunity to gather once more in the same spirit of friendly affection
that had characterized all their meetings.
It was well toward midnight when the party broke up.
"Mayn't I take you home in my car, Grace," pleaded Tom. Grace stood for
the moment, a little detached from the others, arranging the veil over
her hat.
"Oh, no, Tom," she made quick answer. "It is late. You mustn't go to
that trouble. David is going to take Anne and I in his car. Hippy, Nora,
Reddy and Jessica are going home in Hippy's machine."
Tom's face fell. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon, then?"
"Yes, do. Miriam and David are coming over for a while," returned wily
Grace. Her one idea was to avoid being alone with Tom. His sole idea was
to be alone with her. His pride, however, would allow him to go no
further. He had been rebuffed twice in rapid succession.
"Thank you. I'll drop in on you then," he said, trying to summon an
indifference he did not feel.
After his aunt's guests had departed with much merriment and laughter,
Tom turned to go upstairs. He was sure Grace did not intend to be
unkind. It was not her fault if she did not love him. He had determined,
however, to plead with her once more. Then, if she still remained
obdurate, as he feared she might, he would give up all hope of her,
forever, and go his lonely way in the world.