[Illustration: 9156]
HE hour-hand of the watch that hung at Sister Julia's belt had just
reached three as she put the last touch to the table; that last touch
consisted in placing, at each seat, a card bearing the name of the
person who was to occupy it. Sister Julia had herself prepared the cards
in the little leisure she could spare from hospital duties. On each
she had painted some little emblem of the sea--a shell, or a spray of
seaweed--introducing the name in odd-shaped letters.
Then on the reverse side she had enrolled the entire party in the order
of their seats at the table, knowing that some of their number would
cherish those little cards as precious souvenirs for many a long year to
come.
The soup was on the table, and Mrs. Murray having instructed the woman
who had been helping her just how to bring the dishes to the table, laid
aside her great gingham apron, and gave the signal to sit down.
“Why, there's one seat too many!” remarked Harry, when all had found
their places.
“Dear me, why so there is!” exclaimed Sister Julia. “How did that ever
happen?”
“Why, it happened just this way,” answered a familiar voice; no one
could tell just where the voice came from, but all knew whose it was.
“It happened just this way. I telegraphed Sister Julia yesterday that if
she would put off the dinner till three o'clock I could get through
my sermon in time to come, and so here I am, you see,” and Mr. Vale
appeared in the door-way, having waited a moment in the vestibule to
hang up his coat.
The presence of Mr. Vale was just the one thing needed to complete that
Thanksgiving dinner in everyone's estimation.
Even the men, whose knowledge of English was limited to the
parrot-learned “Thank you,” brightened when they saw him. There are
faces which bear so plainly the imprint of love and sympathy, one does
not need to speak a common language to comprehend them.
“You have come at the right moment,” said Sister Julia, and Mr. Vale,
knowing what she meant, bowed his head and asked a blessing. It was a
prayer as well as a blessing--a prayer for the future of these sailors,
who were so soon again to give their lives to the keeping of the sea;
and a prayer for the future of the children, that the whole volume of
their life might remain as pure and unsullied as the pages of their
childhood--nor did he forget the captain lying on his cot in the little
vestry room. His voice seemed to gather additional earnestness as he
prayed that he might be restored to perfect health, and take up his life
again with a divine trust and courage which should be able to grapple
victoriously with misfortune and despair, should he again be called to
meet them.
At the close of the blessing Sister Julia thought she heard a low
fervent “Amen” from the recesses of the little vestry room.
No doubt it was but natural that everyone at that long table should
realise that it was no ordinary occasion. Never did a stranger company
sit down to a Thanksgiving dinner under stranger circumstances, but they
enjoyed it heartily, notwithstanding the strangeness.
Somehow or other, Mr. Vale knew just the way to draw everybody out, and
thanks to him the party, that otherwise might easily have found itself a
little stiff and embarrassed, became a very merry one.
[Illustration: 9158]
Captain Murray enlivened the table with two or three old sea yarns,
and while they were waiting for the dessert to be brought in Mr. Vale
induced the sailors to give them two or to be going on, on every side.
When at last Mrs. Murray lifted an all-on-fire plum pudding to the
table, one of the younger sailors, who was little more than a boy,
clapped his hands from sheer delight, and, fired by his enthusiasm, all
at the table followed his example. The colour came into Mrs. Murray's
round face; she considered the demonstration as a compliment to herself,
as was quite right she should, three Spanish songs which they were
accustomed to sing together at sea. Meanwhile, Nan had travelled into
the vestry with the captain's dinner, of clam broth and dainty little
crackers; delicious broth, which Sister Julia had herself prepared, and
crackers which Nan's own little hands had toasted to a most inviting
brownness. It did Nan's heart good to see how the captain enjoyed eating
them, and it did the captain's heart good to see how much she enjoyed
seeing him eat them; and so it was that all through that Thanksgiving
Day a constant process of _doing hearts good_ seemed for no little
raisin-stoning and washing of currants had gone toward the concoction of
that great brown pudding, about which the blue flames were now curling
so beautifully.
At last the supreme moment for “all hands” arrived, when, at a signal
from Sister Julia, Regie, as chairman of the finance committee, produced
the budget of envelopes, and handed them to one and another as fast as
he could make out the names written on the backs of them.
Meanwhile, Mr. Vale stood up, and explained that each envelope contained
a gift of money, and though by no means a large amount, the giver hoped
it might stand them in good stead, and that each would kindly accept it
with her best wishes.
At the words “her best wishes,” the eyes of the crew, as by common
consent, turned toward Sister Julia, so that she had right away to deny
having had any part in the transaction.
“No, indeed,” she said, “you must not thank me for this; Mr. Vale's
sister is the good friend to whom you are indebted.”
In the absence of their captain the men looked to their first mate to
express their gratitude. Mr. Vale would have given a great deal if his
sister could have heard the few earnest words which the first mate spoke
from a full heart, and could have seen the sturdy fellow as he spoke
them.
And so the dinner was ended. It had grown quite dark in the chapel, for
the early November twilight had deepened landward and seaward.
“Before we separate,” said Mr. Vale, “I wish Regie would sing the German
evening hymn from the Children's Hymnal.”
Regie needed no urging, and took his stand beside Sister Julia at the
organ, while the others still kept their places. He loved to sing,
throwing his whole soul into it, and in that lay half his power to
please.
Clear and sweet rang out the words of the simple hymn, and at its close
more than one sleeve was brushed across misty eyes, and tears stole from
under the captain's eyelids as he lay in the little vestry--lying there
alone, why need he strive to hide them?--besides, what was there to be
ashamed of in such tears as those?
These had been days of new and strange experiences to those Spanish
sailors, and they had learned some of life's best lessons for the first
time.
“Your faces are kinder than when you came,” Nan had frankly said to the
crew one day.
“Senorita, that is because our hearts are kinder,” one of the men had
answered.
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[Illustration: 0161]