A Little Girl in Old New York, Amanda Minnie Douglas [e book reader for pc txt] 📗

next month.

Charles had endeavored to persuade his mother to go, but she wanted to get the turkey ready for the Christmas dinner, and had no time for such trifling things. No woman had who did her duty by her house and her family. The harder and stonier and more rigid the discipline was, the more virtue it contained, she thought. There was no especial end in view with her; it was the way all along that one had to be careful about and make as rough as possible.

Mr. Reed was secretly proud of his boy. He had a misgiving that all this praise and attention was not a good thing, but the boy looked so happy, and it was Christmas Eve, with the general feeling of joy in the air. He was curiously moved himself. Perhaps happiness wasn't such a weak and sinful thing after all. It did not seem to ruin the Underhill family.

But he said to Charles as they were nearing home: "I wouldn't make much fuss about the evening. Your mother thinks such things rather foolish."

They all returned in a crowd, laughing and talking and saying merry good-nights. Martha had the key of the basement and they trooped in. Indeed, Martha was so much one of the family that Dr. Hoffman paid her a deal of respect.

Father was up-stairs in the sitting-room reading his paper. He glanced up and nodded.

"Oh!" cried Hanny, "where's mother? The house looks so dark and dull and not a bit Christmassy. It was all so splendid, and oh, Father! Charles sung like an angel, didn't he, Margaret? They made him sing over again, and he looked really beautiful. And there were two Chinese girls at the fair, such queer little things," she flushed, for the word recalled Lily Ludlow. "Their hands were as soft as silk, and when they talked--well, you can't imagine it! It sounded like knocking little blocks all around and making the corners click. But where _is_ mother?"

"Mother is going to stay up to Steve's all night. They wanted her to help them."

"Oh, dear! It won't be any Christmas without her," cried the little girl ruefully.

"Oh, she'll be home in the morning, likely."

"Hanny, it is after eleven, and you must go to bed," said Margaret.

"I'd just like to stay up all night, once. And can't I hang up my stocking?"

"I'll see to that. Come, dear. And boys, go to bed."


CHAPTER XIX

WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING

The boys tried to be merry with a big M to it, on Christmas morning. But something was lacking. The stockings hung in a row, and there were piles of gifts below them. Books and books and books! They were all too old for playthings now. Hanny had two white aprons ruffled all round, and a pretty pair of winter boots. They were beginning to make them higher in the ankle and more dainty, and stitching them in colors. These were done with two rows of white. She had a set of the Lucy books that all little girls were delighted with. Oh, I do wonder what they would have said to Miss Alcott and Susan Coolidge and Pansy! But they were very happy in what they had. Jim was delighted with two new volumes of Cooper. Ben had a splendid pair of high boots, and three new shirts Margaret and the little girl had made for him.

But, oh, dear! what was it all without mother! They missed her bright, cheery voice, her smile and her ample person that had a warm buoyant atmosphere. They would have been glad to hear her scold a little about the litter of gifts around, and their lagging so when breakfast was ready.

To make the little girl laugh her father told her that once a man was driving along a country road when he saw seven children sitting on the doorstep crying, and seven more on the fence. Startled at so much grief he paused to inquire what had happened, and with one voice they answered:

"Our mother's gone away and left us all alone!"

"There's only seven of us with Martha, and I am not crying," said the little girl spiritedly.

Joe dropped in just as they were seated at the table, and whispered something to his father and Margaret. He seemed very merry, and Mr. Underhill gave a satisfied nod. He brought Margaret a beautiful cameo brooch, which was considered a fine thing then, and put a pretty garnet ring on Hanny's finger.

Hanny guessed what the word had been. Mother was going to bring Steve and Dolly down to dinner. Dolly had changed her mind, for she had said she could not come. That was what they were smiling about.

At ten Stephen brought mother down in the sleigh, and they were more mysterious than ever.

Peggy and the little girl must bundle up and go back with him, for he had such a wonderful Christmas present to show them.

"But why didn't you bring Dolly and stay to dinner? And oh, Mother! Christmas morning wasn't splendid at all without you!" said the little girl, clinging to her.

Mrs. Underhill stooped and kissed her and said in a full, tremulous sort of voice:

"Run and get your hood, dear, and don't keep Stephen waiting."

The horses tossed their heads and whinnied as if they too, said, "Don't keep us waiting." The sun was shining and all the air seemed infused with joy, though it was a sharp winter day. The weather knew its business fifty years ago and didn't sandwich whiffs of spring between snow-banks. And the children were blowing on tin and wooden horns, and wishing everybody Merry Christmas as they ran around with the reddest of cheeks.

Steve took Hanny on his lap. What did make him so laughing and mysterious? He insisted that Hanny should guess, and then kept saying, "Oh, you're cold, cold, cold as an icehouse! You should have put on your guessing cap," and the little girl felt quite teased.

They stopped down-stairs to get good and warm and take off their wraps. Then Stephen led them up to the front room. It was a kind of library and sitting-room, but no one was there. In the window stood a beautiful vase of flowers. Hanny ran over to that. Roses at Christmastide were rare indeed. "Here," said Stephen, catching her arm gently.

She turned to the opposite corner. There was an old-fashioned mahogany cradle, black with age, and polished until it shone like glass. It was lined overhead with soft light-blue silk, and had lying across it a satin coverlet that had grown creamy with age, full of embroidered flowers dull and soft with their many years of bloom.

On the pillow lay her brother's Christmas gift that had come while the bells were still ringing out their message first heard on the plains of Judea.

"Oh!" with a soft, wondering cry. She knelt beside the cradle that had come from Holland a century and a half ago, and held many a Beekman baby. A strange little face with a tinge of redness in it, a round broad forehead with a mistiness of golden fuzz, a pretty dimpled chin and a mouth almost as round as a cherry. Just at that instant he opened the bluest of eyes, stared at Hanny with a grave aspect, tried to put his fist into his mouth and with a soft little sound dropped to sleep again.

A wordless sense of delight and mystery stole over the little girl. She seemed lifted up to Heaven's very gates. She reached out her hand and touched the little velvet fist, not much larger than her doll's, but oh, it had the exquisite inspiration of life and she felt the wonderful thrill to her very heart. Something given to them all that could love back when its time of loving came, when it knew of the fond hearts awaiting the sweetness of affection.

"That's my little boy," said Stephen, with the great pride and joy of fatherhood. "Dolly's and all of ours. Isn't it a Christmas worth having?"

"Oh!" she said again with a wordless delight in her heart, while her eyes were filled with tears, so deeply had the consciousness moved her. There was a sort of poetical pathos in the little girl, sacred to love. She had never known of any babies in the family save Cousin Retty's, and that had not appealed with this delicious nearness.

Stephen bent over and kissed her. Margaret came to look at the baby.

"He's a fine fellow!" said the new father. "We wanted to surprise you," looking at Hanny and smiling. "We made Joe promise not to tell you. And now you are all aunts and uncles, and we have a grandmother of our very own."

"Oh!" This time Hanny laughed softly. There were no words expressive enough.

"And now you will have to knit him some little boots, and save your money to buy him Christmas gifts. And what's that new work--crochet him a cap. Dear me! how hard you will have to work."

"There were such lovely little boots at Epiphany Fair. If I only had known! But I'm quite sure I can learn to make them;" her eyes lighting with anticipation. "Oh, when will he be big enough to hold?"

"In a month or so. You will have to come up on Saturdays and take care of him."

"Can I? That will be just splendid."

He was silent. He could not tease the little girl in the sacredness of her new, all-pervading love.

The nurse entered. She had a soft white kerchief pinned about her shoulders, and side puffs of hair done over little combs. She nodded to Margaret and said "the baby was a very fine child, and that Mrs. Underhill was sleeping restfully. They had been so glad to have Mr. Underhill's mother." Then she patted the blanket over the baby, and said "it had been worked for his great, great grandmother, and they put it over every Beekman baby for good luck."

Margaret declared they must return. Mother was tired, and the Archers were coming up to dinner after church.

"Could I kiss it just once?" asked Hanny timidly.

"Oh, yes." The nurse smiled and turned down the blanket, and the baby opened his eyes.

Hanny felt that in some mysterious manner he knew she loved him. Her lips touched the soft little cheek, the tiny hands.

"He's very good now," said the nurse; "but he can cry tremendously. He has strong lungs."

Stephen took them back and then went down to Father Beekman's. There was so much to do, the little girl and the big girl were both busy enough, helping mother. The boys and her father had gone out, but they had all heard the wonderful tidings.

Hanny ran back and forth waiting on Martha and carrying dishes to the table, so there would be no flurry at the last.

"Hello, Aunt Hanny!" laughed Jim, bouncing in with the reddest of cheeks. "You'll have to grow fast now to keep up with your dignity. Well, is he Beekman Dutch or Underhill English?"

"He's just lovely. His eyes are blue as the sky."

"Hurrah for Steve! Well, that was a Christmas!"

Her father was coming with the two cousins, and she ran up-stairs to wish them Merry Christmas and tell her father what she thought of the baby. The baby and the Christmas sermon and the rheumatism and cold weather seemed to get jumbled all together, and for