CHRISTMAS DAY WITH THE CAMPBELLS
The days which followed the advent of the orphan sisters in the great
house were happy ones. Oh, so happy! How can they be described? The two
lonely old hearts which had hungered all these long years for the little
children who had so early left them thrilled with gladness at every
sound of the eager, girlish voices. Boundless content reigned in their
hearts as they watched each expressive face and studied each different
character; and they wondered openly how they had ever managed to live
without this precious band of granddaughters, as they insisted upon
calling their charges.
And the girls were equally happy. Gail felt as if a great weight had
been lifted from her shoulders, as if her soul had been suddenly freed
from a dark prison. The care-worn look vanished from the thin face; the
big, gray-blue eyes sparkled with animation; her heart bubbled over with
gratitude and love; and in every possible way she tried to show these
new guardians how deeply and tenderly she loved them. And her attitude
was that of the other sisters also, except that each took her own
method of showing it. The Campbells were well satisfied with their
experiment and were never tired of saying to each, other, "They are ours
now."
"Yes," Peace had answered them once when she had overheard these words;
"we are yours now, but it seems to me 'sif we had always belonged to
you. Some way, we fit in just as slick! 'Sif we had only been away on a
vacation and just got home again, and you're tickled to see us and we're
tickled to see you. Only--s'posing we really had been your
granddaughters, s'posing you had been our Grandpa Greenfield, I bet
_you'd_ never have named me Peace."
"No," Dr. Campbell replied gravely, but with a quick thrill of
tenderness in his heart for this little scapegrace who seemed to win
from everyone an extra share of love; "no, I don't think I should have
named you Peace--that is, if I could have foreseen what the blossom was
to be when the bud unfolded. I should have called you Joy."
"Joy?" repeated Peace. "Humph! That sounds like a heathen name. We've
got a story book about Hop Loy, a Chinaman who was born on Christmas Day
and never saw a Christmas tree until he was older'n Cherry. Why-ee!
Ain't that terrible! I used to think I'd like to have my birthday come
on Christmas, but now I'm glad it doesn't, for then everybody'd make one
present do for the two days, and I'd get only half as many pretty
things as other children have. It's bad enough as 'tis, being born on
New Year's Day, for by that time most folks have spent all their money
on Christmas doings."
"Oho," he mocked, "is that what is bothering you? Well, now, don't you
worry! You shall have your share of birthday gifts as well as heaps of
Christmas presents as long as you live with us. This year Christmas will
be doubly merry, for it is the first holiday season we have had any
young folks to help us celebrate since the days when Dora's nephew used
to spend his vacations with us."
"Why doesn't he come any more?" asked Cherry curiously.
"Oh, he is a gray-haired man now with children of his own," laughed
grandma, then sighed, for the rollicking Ned who had been the life of so
many vacations with them had married a society dame whose one aim was to
see how many social victories she could score, and the poor children of
the family fared as best they could in the great, loveless palace which
they called home.
"Do they live in Martindale?" asked Hope, eager to add to her list of
acquaintances any whom the Campbells loved.
"No, their home is in Chicago now. That is a photograph of the
children." She pointed to a group picture on the fireplace mantel, and
the girls clustered about it with inquisitive eyes.
"What a sad-faced child the smaller one is," observed Faith. "How old is
she?"
"Six or seven weeks younger than Peace, I believe. She was born on
Valentine Day."
"How lovely!" Peace cried joyfully. "But I'd like it better if it was
the boy who was almost my age. He looks the nicest of the bunch. The big
girl is homely--"
"Peace!"
"Well, it ain't her fault, I know, and I wouldn't mind how homely she
was if she looked _sweet_, but she doesn't. She looks 'sif she thought
she owned the earth and I never did like a _darnimeering_ person. Now
Tom--his name is Tom, isn't it?"
"No, dear, it is Henderson. Henderson Meadows."
"Oh! Why, I was sure it was Tom; he has such a Tom-ish look--"
A shout of derision interrupted her, but she stoutly declared, "Well, he
has! Boys named Tom are always nice--all I ever knew. I'm sorry his name
is Henderson. It doesn't sound a bit like him."
"You are a queer chick," said the President indulgently, "but I quite
agree with you in regard to Henderson. He is a splendid fellow, however,
in spite of his long name. They ought to have called him Ned Junior. He
is big Ned all over again, just as Belle the second is the counterpart
of her mother. Lorene is the odd piece. Every family has one odd one, I
believe. Lorene is like neither her father nor mother."
"What funny names! They are as bad as ours. But I should like to know
the children--the folks, I mean. I s'pose Belle is too old to be called
a child any longer, ain't she?"
"Yes, Belle is sixteen and stylish," he answered grimly, as if that told
the story, and it really did, for little more could be said of the
frivolous, society-loving girl, brought up to follow in the footsteps of
her worldly mother.
"Do they come here often?" ventured Gail, still studying the group, none
of whom looked really happy.
"No, oh no," Mrs. Campbell answered hastily. "Martindale is too quiet
for Mrs. Meadows. Ned sent Henderson and Lorene up here for a month last
summer, but Belle has never been our guest. Grandpa and I have visited
them twice in Chicago, but that is all we have ever seen them."
"I wish they lived nearer," sighed Peace. "We never had any cousins of
our own, but maybe they'd adopt us too, like you did; then we'd know
what it feels like to have real relations."
"Suppose you write Lorene. I think she would enjoy getting letters from
a little girl so near her own age."
"That _would_ be nice, s'posing I liked to write letters," Peace
assented, "but I don't. I'll send her a Christmas present, though; and
a valentine when it comes time, and a birthday gift, too. She will like
that, won't she? What street does she live on in Chicago? It'll have to
go pretty soon if it gets there in time for Christmas. That's only a
week off. Mercy! What a lot of work we'll have to do before then,
getting ready for the parties. I do love parties! But I don't see what
you wanted to make two for. One would have been a plenty, and not near
so much work."
Mrs. Campbell laughed comfortably. "The house isn't large enough to
accommodate all we want to invite, so we had to make two parties.
Besides, the evening party is a sort of 'coming out' affair for my older
girls--"
"Coming out of what?"
"Oh, introducing them into college society--"
"And we littler girls ain't worth coming out for? Is that it?"
"Oh dear no! But _little_ girls don't come out into society. They have
to wait until they are grown up. Even Gail and Faith are too young for
the social whirl as the world understands that phrase. They must wait
until they are through with school and college life before they take up
social duties. But they have met so very few of our young people since
coming here to Martindale to live that we are giving this party to
introduce them to their own classmates really. Do you understand now?"
Peace did not, but she vaguely felt that she ought to, so she bobbed her
head slowly and fell to puzzling over the queer ways of the world.
Fortunately for the whole household, the last week of preparation for
the holiday season was a very busy one, so Peace had little time to
think of all these perplexing questions; and when Christmas Day dawned
at length, everyone thought she had forgotten her grievance over not
being invited to attend the evening party for the older sisters. But
Peace remembered, and in the gray of the early dawn before anyone else
was awake in the great house, the door of the flag room burst open with
a jerk and a joyous voice shrieked through the gloom:
"What have you got in your stockings, girls? Mine is stuffed so full it
fell off the nail, and one chair and half the dresser is loaded with the
left-over packages. And Allee's got as many as I have. There's a doll
for each of us--they beat yours all hollow, Cherry. Now we've got a
Goddess of Liberty all our own and you can have yours as soon as ever
you want it. And I've got seven books. Guess Santa must have mixed me up
with you again, Cherry. There are three puzzles and five games and a lot
of handkerchiefs and ribbons, two sashes, and oh, the loveliest white
dress for winter wear, all trimmed with the softest velvet--just the
thing for your party tonight, Faith, s'posing I was invited. And
there's a plaid dress and a plain red one and a brown one and a dark
blue--six in all--and two coats. _Two!_ Think of that! Mercy, ain't we
rich now? Are you awake, all of you? Are you listening? Ain't this
different from last year?"
Ah, how well they all remembered that last Christmas, and what a hymn of
praise and thanksgiving went up from each of those six hearts for the
joy and good tidings this Christmas had brought them!
Before Peace had finished shouting her catalog of gifts, the other
sisters were awake--and indeed, the whole household was astir--examining
the generous remembrances loving hands had heaped around their beds as
they slept. And what a merry time they made of it! Gussie could scarcely
prevail upon anyone to touch her tempting breakfast, for excitement had
dulled the usually hearty appetites; the young folks found their
treasures more alluring than any breakfast table could possibly be, and
the President and his wife hovered over them to enjoy the sight of their
joy.
"A body'd think they had never seen a Christmas Day before," muttered
Marie, waiting impatiently in her snowy cap and apron to serve the
rapidly cooling breakfast.
"It's many a long day since they have seen one like this," said Gussie
loyally, smiling gratefully as she thought of the liberal number of
packages old Santa had left hanging to her door during the night. But at
length the meal was ended, Marie had carried the dishes away, Jud
appeared with a step-ladder and hammer, and the younger trio were
banished upstairs to amuse themselves until the last of the party
decorations were put in place. This was not a hard thing to do,
fortunately, and for once not one of them raised any objection to being
exiled in this fashion.
"Why, I've enough things of my own to look at and think about to last me
a week," Cherry breathed ecstatically.
"Yes, and s'posing you did get tired of that," spoke up Peace, "there's
all the rest of the girls' bundles to 'xamine. They've each got a
hundred 'most near, I sh'd think."
So for a long time they fluttered from room to room, admiring the pretty
things that were now their own, nibbling chocolate drops, or discussing
the party scheduled for two o'clock that afternoon. Then gradually
conversation flagged; each girl sought a favorite retreat, and
surrounded by her pile of belongings, sat down to gloat over them.
Silence fell upon the rooms, broken only by the sound of rustling
ribbons caressed by admiring hands, the opening and shutting of boxes,
the fluttering of story-book leaves, the protesting squeak of Queen
Helen's bisque arms and legs, and the rattle of mysterious puzzles.
Cherry had retired to her own domain to regale herself with certain
tempting volumes, and Peace and Allee were alone in the flag room when
the older girl suddenly dropped the book in which she had been lost for
a full half hour, and said eagerly, "Allee, this is the most interesting
story I ever read. It tells how the little Swede children give the birds
a Christmas. Think of that! The birds! We tried to make it happy for
everyone we knew--Jud and Gussie and Marie and the flirty chimney-sweep
who goes by here every morning, and the washwoman who lives in the
alley, and the milk-boy who comes so far through the cold to bring us
our milk, and Caspar Dodds' family--and--and--all of them; and we even
remembered the canary and the dogs, but we never thought of the birds
outdoors."
"No, we didn't," Allee agreed, pausing in her occupation of undressing
the gorgeous Queen Helen to stare fixedly at her sister as if trying to
fathom her thoughts. "We might ask Gussie for some crumbs. It ain't too
late yet."
"Crumbs wouldn't do at all. The book says they tie a sheaf of wheat to a
tall pole in the yard so the birds will see it and come down and eat.
See, there is the picture."
"Um-hm. But we haven't any tall pole in our yard, 'cept the flag-pole
and that's on the roof."
"No, we haven't any pole like the book shows, but we could hitch the
wheat on our balcony-rail knobs and when the birds came down to get it,
we could watch them from this window. See?"
"Where'll you get the wheat?"
"From the barn. Jud's got a lot of different kinds of grain out there."
"But we can't go downstairs until party time. Even lunch is to be
brought up here, grandma said."
"That's so. But I don't think they'd care if we just slipped down the
stairs and straight out of the front door. It wouldn't take us but a
minute to get the wheat and come right back again."
"Grandma said if we went downstairs before she gave us leave, we
couldn't go to the party at all."
"Then how can we feed those birds?"
"I guess we can't feed them this year--'nless we do it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow won't be Christmas. We've got to do it today. Just think how
nice it will be to play we are little Swedes and how pleased Gussie'll
be to think we did something her people do."
"Why do just Swedes feed the birds?" inquired Allee, still a trifle
dubious about entering into Peace's plan, in view of the risk involved.
"Oh, I s'pose they thought of it first. Every kind of people do
something queer at Christmas which they call a custom. The Holland
children put out their shoes on Christmas Eve for Santa Claus to fill,
instead of hanging up their stockings."
"Their shoes?" Allee's eyes were as round as saucers with astonishment.
"Yes. They wear big, wooden boats for shoes. I guess their feet must be
extra big--anyway, their shoes are simply _e-mense_ and will hold a lot.
Then there's the French people,--_they_ always save up all the fusses
and scraps they have had with other folks during the year, and on
Christmas Day they go around and get forgiven. Wonder what Gail would
think of that! And the Irish folks stay up all night to hear the horses
talk."
"Peace, you're fooling!"
"Allee Greenfield, do I ever fool you?"
"N--o, you never have."
"And I ain't beginning now. That is just what this book says."
"But horses don't talk!"
"Only at Christmas time."
"I don't b'lieve they do then. Did you ever hear them!"
"N--o, but I'm going to stay up tonight and listen."
"Oh, we can't. This is party night and what would grandma say?"
"We'll never know if they talk unless we do stay up and listen--and I'd
like to find out what they say. It's just at midnight. That ain't long.
We go to bed at eight, and midnight is only twelve o'clock. We could
stay awake easily till then, 'cause the people who are invited will be
leaving just about that time. I heard grandma say so. We'll just skip
away to the barn and see if Duke and Charley are talking, and then we'll
come back before anyone knows we're gone."
The plan was truly very fascinating, but Allee still looked very
doubtful, and after a silent moment Peace broke out in an aggrieved
tone, "I don't see what is the matter with you, Allee. You are getting
to be just like Cherry. She always sets down on my plans. You won't help
me hang up the wheat for the Swedes or listen to the Irish horses. You
never used to be like that."
"I will too help you!" cried Allee, hurt at her boon companion's words
and tone. "I'll do anything you want me to, only I don't see how we can
carry out either one of those. We'll surely get scolded if we go
downstairs now, and it would be dreadful if we couldn't go to either
party."
Peace walked to the balcony window and threw up the sash, murmuring, "If
only grandpa hadn't made us promise not to slide down the pillars! Oh,
I've got it, Allee! Look here!"
Allee scrambled up from the floor and hurried to her side, shivering in
the cold blast that blew in through the open window, bearing with it a
few feathery flakes, for it was trying hard to snow. "See that piece of
the wall that sticks out there, and--"
"But how can you walk on that little mite of a piece?" gasped Allee,
growing pale at the very thought. "And how would you get down to the
ground?"
"Oh, that's easy! The rain-pipe is fastened just high enough for me to
hang onto, and 'sides, the trellis goes part of the way to the porch
roof, and Jud hasn't taken down the ladder he put up there yesterday."
"Yes, but s'posing you should fall," wailed Allee in sudden terror, for
the water-pipe looked like a very frail support even for a child as
small and light of foot as was Peace, and the corner with the projecting
porch roof seemed so far away.
"There's snow on the ground. I wouldn't get hurt. But you needn't think
I'm going to fall. I've clum lots harder places than that before. You
stay here and when I get back you can tack up the wheat on the rail
post."
Carefully she stepped out on the balcony, slipped over the low railing
and set out on her perilous journey along the narrow coping, clinging
tightly to the rain-trough with one hand, and hanging onto the trellis
supports with the other till at last she was safe on the porch roof at
the corner. With an exultant shout she turned and waved her hand at
rigid, white-lipped Allee in the window, then slid lightly down the
ladder and out of sight. She was gone a long time, and the small watcher
above was becoming alarmed at her stay, fearing that the daring acrobat
had been caught at her pranks, and wondering what punishment would
befall her in such an event, when the bare, brown head appeared over the
low porch roof once more, and Peace inquired in a worried tone, "Do you
know whether birds eat hay? 'Cause I can't find any whole wheat out
there. It's all shocked."
"Why, I never watched them long enough to see," began Allee, eyeing the
great twisted wisp the older child had in her hand.
"Well, I brought some grain, too, but I don't know how we can tie that
to a pole, 'nless we leave it in the bag, and then how can the birds get
at it!"
"We might throw it along the rail--it's wide enough to hold quite a
little--"
"Course! What a _nijut_ I am not to think of that myself!"
Slinging the bag of grain over one arm, and still clutching the hay
firmly in the other hand, she began her slow creeping along the coping
back to the balcony window. The rain-pipe shook threateningly under her
weight, and even the trellis supports swayed uncomfortably when once she
slipped and almost lost her frail footing. Allee gave a low moan of
horror and shut her eyes, but the daring climber did not fall, and when
next the watcher looked, she beheld the curly, brown head bobbing over
the balcony rail, as Peace swung up to safety beside her, and dropped
the burden--the birds' Christmas dinner--into her trembling hands.
Nor was Allee the only one who trembled. On the snowy walk below,
approaching the house with rapid strides, came the dignified President,
hand in hand with two children, a bright-eyed, black-haired boy of
perhaps a dozen years, and an under-sized, gipsy-like little girl, both
chattering like magpies as they raced along beside the tall, erect old
man, when suddenly the girl screamed faintly, "Oh, Uncle Donald, look!"
But he had caught sight of the apparition even before she spoke, and
halted abruptly, breathlessly, terror clutching at his heart. The boy
followed the gaze of his two petrified companions, and ejaculated in
amazed admiration, "Golly, but she's got grit! Why, Uncle Donald, that's
your house! That must be one of the girls you were telling us about. Is
it Peace?"
The President nodded his head mechanically, not knowing that he had
heard the question, but the next moment the frozen horror of his face
melted. The climber had reached the balcony and was unconcernedly
scattering a handful of grain over the narrow railing, while Allee
securely bound the wisp of hay to the balcony post. A great sigh of
relief escaped the watchers below, their hearts began to beat once more
and the red blood pounded through their veins.
"Oh," gasped the girl, "I thought sure she'd fall!"
"I didn't," declared the boy with a wise shake of his head. "She's a
reg'lar cat. I believe she could climb a wall. She's like that 'human
fly' the papers are always telling about. I'd like jolly well to see
_him_ do some of his stunts, you better believe!"
The President said nothing, but his mouth set in grim lines and a look
of determination replaced the fearful pallor of his face. Forgetful of
the guests he had in tow, he marched into the house and straight up the
stairway with the children still at his heels. At the door of the flag
room he knocked, then without waiting for a summons from within, he
entered.
The two scatterers of Christmas cheer had finished their work by this
time and were now gleefully watching the feathered folk of the air
settling about the unexpected repast, so they scarcely heard the steps
in the hall or the creak of the opening door. But at the peculiar sound
of the voice speaking to them, both girls wheeled quickly, and Peace
asked in guilty haste, "Did you want us, grandpa?"
"Yes, come here, both of you."
They went and stood at his knee, a secret fear tugging at each little
heart as they saw the unusually stern look he bent upon them.
"Is--is--what--why--," stammered Peace, wishing he would smile a little
to relieve the keenness of his glance.
"What were you doing just now?"
"Feeding the birds like the Swedes do on Christmas Day, only we didn't
have a pole to hitch our wheat to, and all our wheat was in kernels
anyway, and we were told not to go downstairs until Jud and the girls
were through dec'rating, so we clum out of the window and I got some hay
and grain just as slick! Don't the birds look as if they were enjoying
their Christmas dinner?" Peace rattled on, speaking so rapidly that the
words fairly tumbled out of her mouth.
"Didn't I tell you when you chose this room for your own that you would
forfeit it the first time you used the window for the stairway?"
"No, grandpa," came the astounding reply from both eager little girls.
"You said _porch_, _pillars_, and we have _never_ used them for
stairways since the time we told you about. We 'membered that
_carefully_, and this time we used that wide piece that sticks out of
the wall, and then clum down Jud's ladder from the back porch roof. That
ain't the balcony pillars, grandpa. You never said we couldn't go down
that way."
In absolute amazement the learned Doctor of Laws gazed long and
silently into the anxious, upturned faces. Allee's lips began to
tremble, and even Peace, remembering the Doctor's words in regard to
lickings the night of the surprise party in the little brown house,
shook in her shoes; but she steadfastly returned his gaze, and quietly
repeated, "You know you didn't, grandpa!"
"No," he said at last. "I did not forbid your going down that way, but
it was only because I never dreamed you or anyone else would ever try
such a feat." Suddenly his sternness vanished, he stooped quickly and
gathered the scared little souls in his arms, choking huskily, "My
little girlies, if you knew what a fright you have given your old
grandpa--"
"Oh, grandpa," quavered Allee from her retreat on his shoulder, "we'll
never do it again, truly!"
"And you won't take this darling room away from us this time, will you?"
wheedled Peace, her equilibrium restored at sight of this unusual
display of emotion.
"No," he promised, "not this time. We'll try you again, but remember--no
more window climbing of _any_ kind."
"Not even out onto the balcony?" wailed Peace in dismay.
There was a sound of suppressed laughter from the hall, and as the girls
in the flag room whirled about to discover the cause, the President
suddenly remembered his new guests and rose hurriedly to his feet. But
Peace had reached the door in a bound and with a cry of delight dragged
forth the embarrassed strangers, exclaiming, "It's Henderson and Lorene,
grandpa! They look 'xactly like their picture, don't they, only not
quite so grumpy? Grandma said I better write Lorene and I did and I
invited her to come up for my party. That's how they happen to be here.
Now we'll get acquainted with our relations, won't we? I invited Belle,
too. Why didn't she come?"
"Belle and mamma went to Evanston last week," Lorene explained
bashfully.
"And they let you come all alone?"
"They don't know yet that we aren't in Chicago," chuckled Henderson.
"Dad let us come. It's only a twelve-hour ride and we don't change cars
at all. Pooh! We've gone longer ways than that alone."
"But not when mamma knew it," supplemented Lorene. "She'd have
_insisted_ upon sending Nurse with us--if she had let us come at all.
Where shall we put our wraps? It's hot in here."
"Oh, I forgot!" cried Peace, abruptly recalled to her duties as hostess,
for dazed Dr. Campbell had gone in search of his wife the minute he saw
that the children were sufficiently introduced.
"Hang your coat on the hall-tree, Henderson; and Lorene, bring your
things in here. It's pretty near lunch time already, and then we must
dress for the party."
So in spite of their very unexpected arrival, the two strangers received
a royal welcome, and were soon very much at home with the six merry
girls whom they promptly adopted as cousins, just as Peace had hoped
they would. And how quickly the hours flew by! Before anyone realized
it, the great clock in the hall struck two, and promptly the small
guests began to arrive. Happy voices filled the house, happy faces
beamed from every corner, happy hearts beat high with Christmas cheer;
the very air seemed charged with happiness. The four younger sisters
made charming hostesses, Grandma Campbell proved to be a rare
entertainer, and the dignified President won everlasting fame as a
story-teller and leader in games.
"_Everything_ was a success," as Hope thankfully declared when the last
guest had departed, and the happy group had congregated in grandma's
room to talk things over while Jud and his corps of helpers were setting
things to rights for the evening party.
"Yes," Peace reluctantly conceded, "but think how much nicer it would
have been if we could have had it in the evening like grown-up folks."
"Still harping about that?" laughed Faith, pausing in the doorway with
her arms full of holly wreaths ready to be hung. "Daytime is made for
children. Gail and I didn't intrude at your party."
"That ain't 'cause you wasn't invited," Peace replied pointedly.
"But we couldn't very well come," Faith answered hastily. "There were so
many things we had to get ready for our tree tonight."
"Getting things ready for a tree ain't like having to lie in bed and
hear all the noise and music and know you can't have any share at _all_
in them," Peace persisted; but Faith had already vanished down the
stairway, and only a tantalizing laugh floated back in reply.
A hush fell over the little company in the cosy room, each busy with
happy thoughts or rosy day-dreams, as she stared at the glowing embers
in the great fireplace or watched the white flakes drifting down through
the early twilight outside. Then there was a firm step on the stair, a
cheery voice from the hallway broke the spell, and six pair of eyes were
lifted to greet the busy President as he briskly entered the room and
paused to survey the pretty scene.
"Well, well," he said bluffly, "what's the difficulty? Quarrelling?"
"No, sir!" they shouted emphatically.
"We were just thinking--" Henderson began.
"How nice it would be if little folks were invited to grown-up parties,"
finished Peace, who seemed possessed of only that one idea.
"That's just what I have been thinking, too," was the surprising
confession from the tall man on the hearth rug.
"Wh-at!"
"Well, when mother and I came to think over the subject seriously, we
both agreed that it did not seem exactly fair to put three, no, four
such charming little maids to bed--for of course Lorene would share your
fate, too--when there were to be such festive doings downstairs,
although neither one of us believes in late hours for children. I
presume we are very old-fashioned in some things--"
"No, you aren't," chorused the loyal girls.
"No? True patriots! And yet didn't you think grandma and I were just the
least teenty bit hard on you to make you go to bed at the regulation
hours tonight when it is Christmas?"
"W-e-ll, we would like awfully much to stay up and see if Gail and Faith
do as good entertaining their comp'ny as we did," confessed Peace with
unusual hesitation.
"Supposing I should tell you that we have decided to let you stay up an
hour or two longer?"
"Oh, grandpa, what a darling you are!"
"No, you must thank Faith. She begged so hard that we have had to give
in to satisfy her."
"Faith?" Peace was so completely dumbfounded that they had to laugh at
her.
"Yes, dear, Faith. She says you are so dreadfully anxious to see what a
grown-up Christmas party is like that she is afraid you will die of
curiosity if you can't have that wish fulfilled."
"Grandpa, you are just joking," Cherry reproved.
"I am thoroughly in earnest, I assure you. To be sure, Faith used
somewhat different words, but she sympathized so heartily with you that
we decided to let you enjoy part of the evening's program. In fact, the
only reason we planned _two_ parties in the first place was because the
old house wouldn't hold at one time all we wanted to invite; and we
thought it would be a great deal easier to entertain our guests if we
had the big folks at one party and the little people at another. Do you
understand now?"
"Yes, and I'll bet you've been figuring on letting us go all the while
we were stewing about it," cried Peace, the irrepressible.
"Maybe you are right," he chuckled.
She bounced off the floor with a squeal of delight, clutched Allee with
one hand and Lorene with the other, and rushed out of the room, calling
back over her shoulder, "Now, I'm _surblimely_ happy! You better go
dress, Cherry! Dinner will soon be ready and there won't be much time
after that before the party begins."
They had been happy before, but the granting of this one dear wish
transported them to such heights of bliss that they seemed to be walking
on clouds, and went about in such a state of rapture that it was
ludicrous as well as delightful to behold their antics.
Evening came, the guests arrived, music sounded, carols were sung, and
Peace, entranced, moved about through the gay, light-hearted throng like
one in a dream. To be sure, it was just as the President had
prophesied--little attention was paid to the children of the party, but
it was glorious fun just to watch the changing scenes and be a part of
them, instead of lying tucked away in bed upstairs listening with
ever-increasing curiosity and longing to the sounds of merrymaking
below.
With a happy sigh of content at the realization of her great ambition,
Peace dropped down upon a pile of cushions by one of the long French
windows, leaned her forehead against the cool pane and looked out into
the night, where by the flickering light of the street-lamps she could
see the white snowflakes drifting slowly, lazily downward.
"My, but hasn't this been a happy Christmas!" she said aloud, though no
one was near enough to hear her words. "Who'd ever have thought last
Christmas that we'd be here tonight? Do you s'pose the angels know we
don't live in Parker any more? We might set a lamp in the window so's
they'd see it and be sure. Gail says mother always did that when papa
was out after night, so he could find his way home all right. I'll tell
Allee and when we go to bed we'll just remind the angels that we don't
need so much looking after now that we're living here. I'll never forget
how s'prised Hec Abbott was when he found out that we'd all been 'dopted
together. I wonder what Hec is doing about now? He can't brag any more
about the good times they have at his house. We are just--what in the
world is that coming up the steps?"
Mechanically she rose to her feet, her nose still pressed flat against
the window-pane as she studied the huge, misshapen figure already on the
wide veranda. The footman who had ushered in the guests of the evening
was at that moment occupied in fastening up a strand of evergreen which
had fallen close above a gas-jet; the President was at the furthest
corner of the great parlor engaged in an animated discussion with a
pale-faced professor of Greek; and Mrs. Campbell was nowhere in sight.
With a wildly beating heart, Peace seized the door-knob, and not waiting
for the queer stranger outside to ring the bell, she flung wide the door
and confronted him.
"Why, it's Santa Claus!" they heard her say, for the sudden sharp blast
of winter air had drawn a crowd to the door to see what had happened.
"Don't you know, sir, that you can't come in this way? Go up to the roof
and climb down the _chimbley_, like you do at other houses," she
commanded, and in the face of the amazed Saint Nick she slammed the
door.
"Peace, what have you done?" cried Gail aghast, as she caught a glimpse
of the fat, knobby pack disappearing down the steps.
"It was just that Santa Claus forgot to go down the _chimbley_," she
explained. "He ought to have remembered that!"
A shout from the adjoining room cut short her defense, and as the crowd
surged forward in that direction, she beheld the jolly old Saint
shuffling across the floor dragging his heavy pack which certainly
looked as sooty and dirty as if he had really plunged down the tall
chimney and through the fireplace. Straight to her corner he came, and
fumbling in his sack, drew forth a tiny statue of the Goddess of
Liberty, which he presented with an elaborate bow, saying in a deep,
rumbling voice, "To the defender of all childhood traditions--Liberty
enlightening the world!" His words were greeted with mad applause, for
by this time everyone had heard the story of the flag room and peeped at
its quaint furnishings; but the laugh was quickly turned from one to
another, for St. Nick had remembered well the pet foibles of each guest
present, and had brought with him appropriate gifts for all.
Much too soon the hands of the clock crept around to the hour of half
past ten, and with sighs of resignation and disappointment, the four
smaller girls, Cherry, Peace, Lorene and Allee, slipped quietly away to
bed.
"I did so want to hear the rest of the carols," murmured Cherry, yawning
so widely that she nearly swallowed the rest of the exiled group.
"We can hear them after we're in bed," said Peace, rubbing her eyes
which were growing very heavy in spite of her efforts to stay awake.
"Gussie promised to leave our doors open until time for the folks to go
home. It's the charades I wanted to see."
"Charades?" questioned Lorene. "Were they going to have charades, too?"
"She means tableaux," explained Cherry. "She's crazy about them. They
make me cough too much--the lights they use, I mean. Come on, Lorene,
sleep with me tonight until Hope comes up to bed. Do, please! It isn't
fair for you three to stick in here and leave me all by myself in the
other room."
Lorene glanced hesitatingly from one sister to the other, and seeing no
opposition, answered, "All right, Cherry, I'll stay with you till the
folks go. You don't care, do you, girls?"
"Not for that long," Peace magnanimously replied, for a daring plan had
just popped her eyes wide open, and Lorene might hinder its fulfillment.
So they separated, and in a few short moments four white-robed figures
were tucked snugly under the coverlets, the lights turned out, and the
two doors left ajar that the sleepy exiles might hear the strains of
music floating up the wide staircase. There was the soft sound of
whispered words from bed to bed like the sleepy twitterings of birdlings
in their nests, and then silence. Cherry and Lorene were fast asleep.
Downstairs the carols ceased, the wail of violin and guitar died away,
and the murmur of voices was again borne to the straining ears of the
conspirators in the flag room.
"Do you s'pose they have begun tableauing?" asked Allee, after what
seemed an eternity of listening.
"Not yet; they have lights. There, that must be one. See how queer the
hall looks through the crack of the door? I guess it's time now. Come
on, but be awful still."
"It's cold after being in that warm bed," protested Allee as her bare
feet touched the polished floor in the hall.
"We'll get some wraps in here," Peace answered, inspired by a happy
thought to seize upon two beautiful white opera robes belonging to some
of the guests below, and with these heavy garments trailing behind them,
they stole softly down the wide stairway almost to the landing, where,
out of sight from the company massed in the parlor and adjoining rooms,
they could still see the tableaux taking place in the reception hall
below.
Fortunately for their health's sake, this part of the program was brief,
and had it not been for the very last scene pictured, no one would have
dreamed of their presence behind the palings. But it happened that the
girls had chosen as a climax for the evening the tableau of the first
Christmas Eve; and Hope, arrayed as the angel of good tidings, appeared
on the stairs just as Jud touched off the weird red light on the
landing,--for neither actor nor servant had discovered the hidden
culprits until too late to utter any words of warning or reproof.
Startled beyond measure at the sudden glow almost at their elbow, the
two conspirators scrambled to their feet and vanished hastily up the
stairway as the chorus below took up the song,
"Angels ascending and descending,
Chanted the wond'rous refrain,
'Glory to God in the Highest,
Peace and good will toward men.'"
The long, fur-lined opera cloaks streamed out behind them like misty
clouds in the unearthly glow of the sulphur light, and it seemed as if
they were really a part of the beautiful tableau, which brought forth
such thunderous applause from the delighted audience that it had to be
repeated. This Peace and Allee did not know, however, for with
chattering teeth and trembling limbs, they had fled to the refuge of
their room, pausing only long enough to drop their borrowed finery where
they had found it; and they were crawling underneath the covers once
more when Peace hissed sharply in her sister's ear, "What about the
horses?"
"What's the matter with them?" murmured Allee, too confused and sleepy
to know what her companion was saying.
"We were going out to hear them talk at midnight."
"So we were! Well, I guess they'll have to talk all to themselves again
tonight."
"What? Ain't you going out with me to listen?"
"We'd freeze in our nightgowns and we dahsent take those pussy-cat coats
to the barn," protested the younger sister, aroused by Peace's surprised
exclamation.
"We'll dress."
"Oh, Peace, and then have the fun of taking our clothes off again?"
"We'll put on our stockings and overshoes and bundle up in grandma's
shawls. How'll that do? But first, we better light that candle I told
you about to let the angels know where we are tonight. There--I guess
they'll see it, even if it isn't as big as a lamp. Come on, I heard the
clock strike a long time ago."
If Allee had not been so sleepy she might have remembered one other time
just a year before when Peace had heard the clock strike; but being too
near the land of Nod to realize anything but that Peace was calling her,
she stumbled out of bed once more and allowed herself to be bundled up
in wraps of all sorts until she was as shapeless as a mummy. In this
fashion they slipped down the back stairs and out to the barn without
betraying their presence, though the steps creaked under their weight,
and every door they opened squeaked so alarmingly that Peace held her
breath more than once for fear someone had heard.
Once inside the dark barn, they had to feel their way about, for not a
ray of light penetrated the blackness of the stormy night, and the grim
silence of the place filled them with nameless terror. It was not so bad
when they had finally found their way into Marmaduke's stall and cuddled
close to the friendly beast, who nosed them inquiringly, but even there
they did not dare speak above a whisper; and so they waited breathlessly
for the mystic midnight hour when the animals should break their silence
and talk, each secretly wishing she were safely back in bed again.
Up at the house the merry evening had at length drawn to a close, and
the guests had reluctantly departed. The President, returning from the
gate where he had escorted the last guest to her sleigh, made a
harrowing discovery. There was a light in the balcony window! Could it
be that burglars had entered the house during the merrymaking and were
even now ransacking the rooms? He looked again. It was such a tiny,
steady light. Was it possible that one of the children was sick and
Gussie had not told him? The last thought sent him flying up the stairs
three steps at a time, and he reached the flag room door so breathless
that he could scarcely turn the knob. The bed was empty. Only a wee
taper from the Christmas tree burned faintly on the window sill.
In frantic haste he called the family and they searched the house from
garret to cellar, but the missing children were not to be found.
"Do you suppose the tableau scared them to death?" asked Hope.
"Maybe they tried to see if Santa Claus really came down the chimney and
got stuck there themselves," suggested Henderson, who regarded the
disappearance of the duet as something of a lark.
"Wake Jud," commanded Mrs. Campbell, and the worried Doctor hastily
lighted a lantern and went down to the barn to rouse the man of all
work, wondering as he did so what good that would do. The horses
whinnied as he entered the stable, and in the dim light that flooded
the place, the President saw that the door of Marmaduke's stall stood
open.
"What can Jud be thinking of?" he muttered somewhat testily, stepping
along to slip the bolt in its place, but the next instant his eyes fell
upon two dark bundles huddled at the horse's feet, and with a startled
exclamation he bent over to examine his find, just as Faith burst in
through the door behind him, crying, "They must have left the house,
grandpa, because the back hall door is unlocked and the storm-door is
swinging."
"Yes, Faith, and here they are," he answered, tenderly lifting the
smaller warm bundle and depositing it in the girl's arms. "What in
creation do you suppose they were doing here?"
As if in answer to his question, the brown eyes of the child he was just
lifting fluttered slowly open, and Peace drowsily drawled, "We fed the
Swede birds for Gussie, and got French forgiveness from grandpa for
doing so, and had a German Christmas tree, and lots of Hung'ry company,
and 'Merican stockings and a 'Merican Santa Claus, but we didn't hear
the Irish horses talk, and I b'lieve it's all a joke."
In spite of their anxiety, Faith and the President gave a boisterous
shout, and Peace heard as in a dream her sister's voice saying, "It is
Christmas Eve that the animals are supposed to talk. Poor Peace!"