When, in my father's house, that night, the Christmas revel was
over--when, last of all, in noisy glee, we had cleared the broad kitchen
floor for Sir Roger De Coverly, which we danced with the help of the
maids' two swains and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and Jacky, who had come out
from the Lodge for the occasion (all being done to the tune of "Money
Musk," mercilessly wrung from an ancient accordion by Timmie
Lovejoy)--when, after that, we had all gathered before the great blaze
in the best room, we told no tales, such as we had planned to tell, but
soon fell to staring at the fire, each dreaming his own dreams.
* * * * *
It may be that my thoughts changed with the dying blaze--passing from
merry fancies to gray visions, trooping out of the recent weeks, of cold
and hunger and squalid death in the places from which we had returned.
"Davy!" said my sister.