Newspaper Page Text
V
H
of Heaven
feu
Continued from First Page.
iliom when they left Greenhays, ami
some of ttaem .still young:.
it was a. great thing that the eldest,
Annie, was so steady ami motherly that,
as far as possible, she took the mother's
place. It was a trust the mother had
given her on her death bed.
"Took after father and the little ones.
Annie,” she had said. Annie had kept
her trust, even to putting away the one
chance of marriage that .presented itself
to her. It wottfd be so long before by
any possibility she could leave father
and tiie children that it would not be fair
to keep Tom Blake waiting.
She had sent him away, but he would
keep coming. I lis face was as familiar
a one in the chimney corner as t lie face
of any one of the family. But it was
quite a long time now 'since he had said
anything of love or marriage. He seem
ed to have grown content with friend
ship; and. oddly enough, Annie, who bad
bidden him be so content, was secretly
sad at his obedience.
Tbe children would not have John
work. I'Jddio took a. clerk’s stool in a.
newspaper office; Charlie went out to
South Africa and joined the police there,
anti sent home so much money every
month that John was fretted lest lie
■should be pinched himself. Kntty, the
next girt to Annie, went into a milliner's.
Xora had been promoted to teach in her
school at an infinitesimal salary. And
there were still four liitle ones, who had
healthy appetites, and must he fed ami
. jollied and receive some sort of school
ing.
it was a Ivitter pill for John to see his
children working in humble positions,
and doing without things they needed
so that the little house might he kept
going.
When he had married their mother lie
had been a yeoman farmer, who had
ridden to honndts. like, the gentry, and
bold his head high.
The life, of confinement in "lose spaces
and scanty food agreed ill witli the
children. Eddie, who had been as
straight a lad as ever lived, contracted
.bowed shoulders at the newspaper office.
He bad ;ui alarming cough, and tbe doe-
tor spoke of getting him away from his
sedentary life in the unventilated but
draughty office. TCa-tty used to come
home Ixirely able to crawl and often wet
through since she could not afford even
a tram drive. Nora. had headaches con
stantly. and Annie suffered from chronic
indigestion. Yet they had been a bonnio
flock at Greenhays.
No. to be sure, John could not sit
with folded hands and let the children
work for him. Ho went about looking
for a job day after day, week after
week—almost year after year—coming
(hewn in his preterxelons as time went,
till be was ready to lake any honest
job that offoreri.
'ITte city was a cruel place, where men
were pushed to the wal at 60. When at
last be got a jo** at a pound a week, to
look after the distribution of fodder in
the stable yard of a great brewery, ho
was so haippy about it that lte forgot to
think what a groat come down it was in
the world. He only remembered that
he need not eat the children's bread
row, and that there was a deal to be
purchased in their now, humble way of
living out of a pound a week.
Tlw children cried and stormed when
they hoard what he bad been doing. T’ne
idea, of a Hurst of Greenways coming
down to be a yardman at a brewery!
But it was impossible for long to with
stand John's cheerful face. He had the
ih'.ue eyes and rosy cheeks of a child
under his white hair, as he had the
heart of a child. JTe was so depreca
tory. so apolegetic with the children that
it ended as such things always did end.
in their hugging hLs white head. And,
U> be sure. Anfiie, though she had pro
tested the loudest, found that pound a
week a great help in the housekeeping.
They had a little red house, one of a
long street of little houses exactly alike.
i‘* was very narrow and scrimped and
ugly after the farm; but John Hurst
was always so full of thanksgiving fo-
the mercies tliat came his way that the
children learnt from him and forgot to
grumble.
To be sure, it was rather a low neigh
borhood. and a good many things hap
pened which used to make Annie call,
up her little flock from the windows and
distract their attention from what was
being said and done in the street or in
the narrow, unlidded boxes called by
courtesy the gardens of Minerva Ter
race. It would have been so ( lean aiul
sale at Greenhays for the children. Here,
it often seemed to Annie, that there was
so much evil about them that she did
not know how she was going to keep
them unspotted from the world as her
mother had bidden her to.
John found his job at the brewery not
altogether an uncongenial one. For one
tiling, it brought him among the horses.
Then there was one big tree in the brew
ery yard, and in Hie spring the thrushes
used to come in 'from the country and
build there anil sing as sweetly, morning
and evening, as they had sung at Green
hays. Indeed, at Greenhays. John had
not troubled very much to listen to the
birds. In fact .lie had had a little en
mity against them, because they played
havoc with his garden—he had been an
enthusiastic gardener.
Now the songs amid the bare boughs
in the new leaves brought the tears to
his eyes, and he felt his heart melt with
in nlm with mingled delight and pain.
Also ho liked the big. dusky lofts which
were his domain, where the light came in
through ovals of lattice-works, and the
smell was of hay and corn. And when
the tree was in leaf all the soft masses
of it waved before tho window ovals, and
the sun streamed through the broad green
leaves, and their shadows danced on the
dusty floor; and, as John said, you
might be in the country and not in the
town at all.
In the long evenings John still found
time to cultivate his little garden, which
was so chock full of flowers and vege
tables that It was the wonder and ad
miration of the neighborhood.
IT was not so pleasant at the brewery
when the winter canto, and John had to
be out in the dark hours of the early
morning in all weathers. And some
times the men were unpleasant and in
clined to pick a. quarrel with John; but
not ofteit. for he had an open, simple way
that made all the world la is friends.
Then it was a distinctly pleasant thing
to John, who turned to pleasant things
ns a flower to the sun. when Master
Roger, the son of the senior partner in
Hie brewery, took Jcindly notice of him
and showed an Interest In him.
The young gentleman was always
Master Roger to the men. who had
worked for the brewery and their fathers
before them, for many and many a year.
Le Merchant's was a very good em
ployment, and discontent bail hardly
ever lifted it. * head among t lie men. The
eldest son of the eldest son had always
gone into the business, and Master Ro
ger was no exception. He seemed to
take quite kindly io the business, al
though be came to it from Eton and
Christ church, and looked, as the men
said, no end of a toff. He was a fair,
curly-haired, pleasant young gentleman,
and John found it quite a good day
when Master Roger would come into Ills
little room and sit down for a chat.
But. despite such alleviations, it was
hard on a man of John's age not to be
able to rest in the chimney corner when
lie wanted to. Annie found it harder and
harder to wake him in the dark morn
ings. lie used sometimes to fall asleep
after he had been called, and would
go out into the cold, dark street at last,
cheerful, but still half asleep. It Used
to go to her motherly heart to break
his sleep and send him out to earn bread
at liis age when rest was ins due.
ft was only on Saturdays and Sundays
that lie could got out for a few miles
into the country, and those were tho
hours of the week to which he looked
forward front Monoa.v ,.w*iiing.
He used to go off by himself, with only
old Fincher, (he grey Irish terrier they
had brought from Greenhays for a com
panion. and a thick stick to help him
to walk.
lie would get out among farms, and
would pause at one live-barred gate after
another to watch tho farming operations
in progress. lie took as great an in
terest in them as the owners of the
land, and would lie elated by fine sea
sonable weather, and cast down by too
long drought or too much rain, like tbe
farmers themselves. He used to enjoy
t hose walks thoroughly, and to come
back with a healthy appetite and full of
things to talk about.
He had told Roger about those
walks, and Master Roger had been ln-
terested, smiling to himself at John's
concern over other men's property
Ho had drawn from Joint the story
of how he had left Greenhays farm, and
had not said much, but It is pleasant blue
eyes had been sympathetic.
One day, in 11 to dark December weath- m
or, John had an adventure and met with w
a misfortune.
He was going home at tho dinner hour,
a relaxation he did not often permit
himself, hut he had been feeling his age
more than usual that day, when he met
Miss Lily, the youngest daughter of the
senior partner, and Master Roger's little
sister, riding with her groom.
He knew the little lady very well by
sight and she him. He took off his hat
to her with the delightful courtesy that
belonged to him. and the child nodded
and smiled. She was a very pretty
little person, and John was devoted to
children. He stood a second looking after
the Jjulo blue-habited figure, with the
fair hair floating about it. thinking what
a pretty seat Miss Lily had in the saddle.
It was rather a narrow thoroughfare
and paved. There were high stone walls
to either side of it.
As he turned to go on he saw a
hooded laundry-cart coming down the
street. For a second he thought there
was nothing unusual. Then lie suddenly
recognized that it was a runaway. At
first the horse's pace was not very fast,
hut tiie clatter of the cart on the paving
stones, echoed by the high walls, terri
fied him. The pace became faster and
faster.
John saw one or two men from the
footpath spring at the horse’s head in an
ineffectual attempt to stop it, and fall
back again.
Now it was coining at a mad pace.
John glanced behind him, wondering Ir
the equestrians were out of ...o street.
-Xo, they were jogging along slowly. The
sound of their horses' feet would drown
tiie noise of tiie runaway. By the time
they would hear it it would be impos
sible io get out of tiie way. John imag
ined the impact of the runaway horse
with Miss Lily's pony and turned sick
lor an instant.
Then lie was our in the roadway, lie
was yet wonderfully active, despite his
age. As the horse came up he sprang
and caught him by lire bridle. The horse
plunged forwar 1, dragging John with
him. Then Joint was down under tire
horse's feet. But the horse had stopped,
and was standing trembling and sweat
ing.
People seemed to arrive a? once from
every quarter. There was a doctor m
the crowd. A litter was sent for, and
John was carried home. He had a
■broken leg; nothing worse, fortunately,
but at his ago, said the young doctor,
it would he a tedious case. Perhaps there
would never be a complete cure. John
might have to walk a bit lame for tiie
lest of his days.
It was very hard on John, with his ac
tive habits. It was hard on Annie, with
that pound a week gone. And John
fretted that perhaps the place would not
be kept open for him; and an invalid t«
nurse, too.
Since misfortunes never come singly, a
week before Christmas Eddie, in a tit
of coughing, brought up blood. lie con
fessed to the doctor that it had hap
pened slightly before. 11 is employment
must he given up said the doctor. Mo
must be nursed at home and have a gen
erous diet while lie stayed; but as soon
as possible he should go to a warmer cli
mate.
That month there was no remittance,
no letter from Charlie. It was frighten
ing beyond tiie lack of tiie money. Some
thing must have happened to him, for
lie was so thoughtful always, and had
never forgotten to write.
Then Katty’s milliner's shop shut its
doors, and Katty was out of a situation.
It was very hard for poor Annie to
keep cheerful, seeing that site had al
ways carried ul! tiie burdens. And then
—there was a fear gnawing at her heart.
Tom Blake was a less frequent visitor.
His old content In her presence seemed
to have vanished. The children had meet
him one day walking with a' very pretty
girl. Annie had never been pretty, and
hard work and indigestion had not helped
her looks, although, as her sister Nora
said, any one who looked as ’'good” as
Annie needn't want to be beautiful.
It seemed like to be a very sad Christ
mas for them all. They must be satis
fied with very humble fare for the Christ
mas dinner, such cheap scraps and par
ings as Annie could purchase from the
butcher in the hour before closing on
Christmas Eve. She would make it into
as nourishing a stew as possible. But
she dared not look beyond. Fnless Char
lie's money came how could she food
them?
It was characteristic of John that lie
did not talk about Hip accident. He had
quite forgotten to mention even to Annie
that Miss I-51 y had been in the path of
tho runaway. He freitej a deal in bis
enforced idleness, watching Annie's har
assed face.
Xo word had come from the authort-
,; es at the brewery, although several of
tiie men iiad comp to see him, and
brought kind little offerings, which made '
John’s eyes misty as he received them.
Tobacco and newspapers nearly always
constituted the offerings. But, then, John
, smoked little, and his thoughts were too
troubled to lose themselves in the polic-
i' al situation.
To be sure. Mr. Roger was away visit
ing friends. The manager, who was
devoted to the Le Merchants, and had
forty years of service, was a cut-and-
driod. hard man, ,who believed in adding
money on money to the Le Alarchan;
riches. He sent no message to John,
lint the men brought him word that there
-..as a not her man on the job—for the
present, at all events.
Christmas Eve was a wretchedly wet
day. Eddie coughed incessantly, and the
children wore at home from school with
colds. The youngest of all. aged seven,
bad refused his dinner with indignation.
Annie had to confess that it was not
inv iting.
Site looked out at Hie rain, thinking to
herself drearily that perhaps soon they
would not have this cover over them.
Stic was tired to death, trying to keep
the fractious children quiet, and her fath
er cheerful. All the Mine, through the
discomfort of things, and the sick boy's
coughing, that other trouble of her own
v ould come into sight.
She had got the children to bed, and
ii’as about to sally forth to do tier mar
gining. thinking miserably how very few
shillings there were in her purse, when
tl ere came ;t tremendous double knock
at the door. She and Katty and Nora
were sitting with the father.
"It sounds like a parcel,” Nora said, as
Katty went to open the hall door.
"It must be a mistake,” said Annie.
‘‘There is no parcel to come for us. ’
Yet they listened with the sense of ex-
pectation Which dies hard with the young.
There was the sound of a couple of
heavy things being humped down in thi
hall. The door slammed, and Katty camo
:n with her eyes shining.
“There are two large hampers.” she
said, “and there isn't any mistake for
they're addressed to John Hurst, Esq.'
.Oh, come and see what they contain'.
\V e shall have to unpack them in the
hall, for they are too heavy to drag
in hero.”
Even Annie was startled out of her
unhappiness. Tile three eager girls set
to work to unpack the hampers. Every
minute they catne running in to display
something to John. They were, indeed,
magnificent hampers. In one, a ham, a
turkey, with strings of sausages, a plum
pudding, mince pies, apples and oragnea
and figs and grapes and a huge Christ
inas cake, with quantities of crackers,
in tiie other was wine, old crusted port,
as though the donor knew there was an
invalid, golden sherry, claret, a boetie
of whisky, with sweet sirups for the
children, five pounds of tea, and a box
of cigars.
And not one word to tell where they
came from.
John would have it that it was Mas
ter Roger. Well they must only wait
and see. The youngest child thought
1 liev came straight, from heaven—and
they might have, for the beatitude they
brought into John's heart and Annie's.
On Clirtsamas morning as Annie .as
going to an early service, when the lamps
were still alight in the frosty street anti
the stars yet twinkling, she found Tom
Blake awaiting her on her own door
step.
”1 made sure you'd be going,” he said;
and then he took her hand and drew it
through his arm and drawing iter wool
en glove off he slipped a little hard
circle "over iter finger.
"I've been trying to forget you,” lie
said, “and it was no use. 1 never could
care for anyone Hut you, so you must
just take me. If we must wait. I’ll
come to live in the house witli you and
help you to work for your father and
the res t. ”
So Tom came back to breakfast after
the service, and ‘the children, who were
wildly excited over sausages for break
fast. forgot to stare at Annie's rosy
cheeks and shining eyes.
About 12 o'clock, just as Annie had
put the turkey in tiie oven, Mr. Roger
Le Merchant called, and his sister Lily
with him.
”! only got hack yesterday. John."' tie
said, “and was sorry to hear of your
accident. Your place will be kept open
for you. and of course you'll be paid
your salary while you're lying by—that
is. if you make up our mind to stay
with us.”
“Thank you kindly for the hampers,
sir.” said John.
Mr. Roger smiled. ‘‘Only one came
from me, John," lie said. “Yoij will
have to thank someone else presently
for the other.”
•‘Why. Air. Hurst." put in little Aliss
Lily, ”1 saw you that morning you got
hurt. As James and I rode back tiie
policeman told us. Of course, I didn't
know it was you.”
”1 did it for you. Miss Lily,” said
John, simply.
"For Lily!”
“For me!”
“You were in the path of the runaway,
Aliss Lily, you and your groom. 1 saw
it all in a minute, what was going to
happen. Heaven helped me to stop
him.”
"John: And you never let u.<? know."
cried Mr. Roger. "Don't you know that
there is nothing in the world my father
any of us. wouldn't do for the one who
did what you did? AN e will do anything
now, John, for you and yours. But per
haps you won't let us do much. There
are others—that delicate boy of yours.
T>r. Franklin has told us about him. He
shall go to Atadeira. Nothing would be
too much for the one who had saved
Lily's life.”
There was another rat-tat at the hall
door.
"Ah! here am some more friends. John,
older friends than we are.” Air. Roger
said. “I meant to have prepared you.
T ant afraid what they can do for you
will outweigh what we can.”
Annie came into the room, and follow
ing her closely a tali, fair-haired boy, and
a brown, pleasant-looking gentleman with
gray hair.
"John.” cried the boy. running to him
and seizing his hand. "Don't you re
member'me. John, Master Hilary? And
here is I'm Jo Hugo. AVe have come
home to live. AA’o never knew that you
had .gone. What a. shame it has been all
these years! AVe should never have
found you only for this fellow”—indicat
ing Mr. La Alarchant—"Cm le Hugo l s
going to marry Miss Le Merchant. And
we have brought you a present. John."
He thrust something into John's hand.
The little ones came stealing into the
room to peep, and Eddie followed them.
He had a 1 dter in "his hand, the delayed
letter from Charii* 1 . None of them had
heard tiie postman's knock.
John was holding something on the
palm of liis hand and looking down at
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A big. old-fashioned, rather rusty
it.
key.
"It's the key of the farm.” he said, in
a slinky voice. “What does it mean.
Alaster Hilary—I mean. Lord st. Leger?
Ir warms my heart to see your lordship
again and Major St. f*eger. too.”
It means that you're, all coming hack
to Greenhays, John,” said young Lord
St. Leger. ‘‘And when .vo.u've looked sit
the key long enough, you’d better lot me
have It. back again, for we’re going down
tomorrow and I want to have the place
in order for you. It will be ready for you
early in the New Year. The crops are
all in. I’ve compensated tiie outgoing
tenant. There will be plenty for all your
family to do on the farm.”
‘‘The key seems to fascinate you, John,”
said Major St. Leger, smiling.
“Isn’t it the Key to Heaven, sir?” said
John.
And the only people who looked at ail
dissatisfied were Mr. Roger Le Alarchant
and his sister, because, of course, all
they meant to do for John was taken
out of their hands.
ELEONOR’S MOTHER.
Continued from First Page.
what T wns. Rapid! That auctioneer
fellow never got over it. '
He chuckled as he thought of liis dis
comfited rival, "the auctioneer fellow."
“Mv dear dad.” said Dick, “it's all very
well for you to be so cheerful. You've
got what you wanted, and a son who is
—ahem!—a credit to you.”
“ ‘Oh would some power lHo giftie gie
us’,” hummed tiie old man.
"Well, he is a credit to us,” affirmed
the old lady. "Dick dear, we want to
know whether money stands in tiie way,
because your father and I—”
Lick was touched. ”Xol a bit of it,
thank you all the same, mater. 1 could
marry tomorrow if Eleanor said yes."
"Then, why in the name of all that's
infernal, said the old gentleman, witli
great distinctness, “don’t you go an 1 ask
her? You don’t think, you confounded
puppy, that a lovely girl like that is
going to throw herself at your empty,
curly head?”
“It's all very well for you to speak,
dead; but you don't know ln-r mother?”
"And from what I've heard ot her. f
don't want to know her,” said the old
gentleman, hotly. “Looks down on us,
don't she? We ain't good enough for
her.”
"Don't say ‘ain’t', dear,” fleaded liis
wife, “or she'11 he sure Of it.”
"I ain't going to be dictated to by—”
The old gentleman laughed. "Well, I
ain't."
"Look here." said Dick. "I'm awfully
grateful to you both. You’re just too
good io live. But we stick together. I'm
not going to have you patronized by an
old woman whose only claim to good
works is that-she is the mother of Elea
nor. I can't give up Eleanor, even if
site won't have me. but I’m going to
ask her to marry me. "
".Marry you. my dear boy! .She's a
darling girl, and she’s too much good
sense not to love you."
Dick hugged liis mother. “You're the
most comforting mother I've eve- had.'
"Did you ever have more than one?”
queried the incredulous old lady.
"Yes; when I was fifteen. f fell pi
love with a handsome young widow, and
she offered to be a ‘mother’ to me. Tic n
she married again and cast me off.'
“Look here, Dick.” said ids father, “we
ain’t—yes, I said 'ain't' on purpose, my
dear—going to be circumvented by
Eleanor's mother. Your mother will
write a note to the old lady—you can tell
her what to say—and”—he made a wry
face—“we'll have 'em both here for
Christmas. I like, as a general rule,
to let myself go at Christmas, but for
your sake, you young puppy, 1'H bottle
myself up this time. I'll explain my plan
to you presently. You go and see 'he
girl this afternoon and have it out with
her. You ain't going—yes, yes. I know,
my dear; T will say -ain't' till they come
—to be half starved any longer. I'll he
summoned by the local authorities if you
don't fill up a bit.
‘Shall T. wasting in despair-er-er.
IJ>ie because a woman's fair-er-er?’
Xot much. You don't often get n top
note like that. Dick, my boy. Now. my
dear, we'll write that letter for you, and
Dick shall take it round. Tie's quite
baggy in the waistcoat, poor chap. That's
rigtit. Dick, come upstairs to the smok
ing room. I'll _ tell you of my little
dodge.” •
"She's a dear felrl. a. sweet girl.”
mused the old lady; "but the mother of
Eleanor! !T'U get Dick to lend me his
Browning and learn some hard words to
use to her. It's difficult, but. with a
darling boy like my Dick, a mother
must make some little sacrifice.”
H.
With Dick's aid. Mrs. Poynter con
cocted a letter to Airs. Shepard, and the
devoted lover, attired in sad-colored gar
ments (Mrs. Shepard particularly ob
jected to his taste in fancy waistcoats)
at about 4 on the afternoon of the day
before Christmas, rang hesitatingly at
tiie door of the trim little villa in which
the Shepards resided.
Fortunately, Eleanor was alone. Slit
lose to greet him with a heightened
color, which did not escape the observ
ant eyes.,of Airs. Shepard's elderiy maid
—a bilious-looking female well stricken
In years.
“How do you do. Air. Poynter? .Mam
ma's lying down. I must call her.”
"Wouldn't it he unkind to disturb
her?”
"Site—she doesn't like being disturbed
so soon after lunch. She always goes up
to her room. And "
“Mistress never expects callers till 5.”
interposed tbe bilious-lined maid.
•'A'oii call take the letter up to her,
Maria.” said Eleanor hastily; and Maria
reluctantly retired.
"I dare say you wonder what it is all
about?” hazarded Dick.
"Is it so very important? You'll have
some tea presently.” She laid her hand
on the bell.
"Don't, please; it will bring her back
again."
"Bring who?”
"Your maid.”
“Oh!” Eleanor smiled. “Why shouldn't
she come back again?”
“Because.” declared Dick, with al! a
lover's ardor, “L'm not going to have
my Christmas spoiled by interruptions, if
I can help it. I've bee.n looking forward
l" it for years,” he added, inconse-
quently.
"And so have T. I mean this partlcu-
l ii one; but it is useless. Alania thinks
Christmas so vulgar.”
It was on Dick’s lips to retort that the
vulgarity was not confined to Christ
mas, but he prudently held his tongue.
“I've a copy of the letter to your
mother,” lie said, drawing it out of liis
pocket. ”1 thought I’d like to read it
to you.”
Eleanor looked interested! “if it’s not
a breach of confidence."
"Of course it isn't. Only, I want to
explain why."
•'Why what?"
“Why it's written.”
‘ 'Dear Airs. Shepard.' ’’ lie began,
“•'It has occurred to my husband—’”
‘ How can you have a husband?”
asked Eleanor.
“Oh! I forgot to explain, it's from my
mother, assisted by my father and my
self. di has occurred to my husband
and myself that at this somewhat noisy
period of tiie year, when the majority
of people give themselves over to un
thinking aevjilry and mirth, it would be
most kind if you and Miss Shepard
would spend Christmas with us. We will
(1. our best not to annoy you with any
ol those senseless observances with
which tiie middle classes disfigure this
season of tiie year. Plain giving and
high thinking will for once in our family
life, form a marked contrast to the hign
living and plain want of thought in our
neighbors. Trusting that we may have
the pleasure of welcoming you both to
dinner on Christmas day. and with kind
regards, in which my husband joins, be
lieve me, dear Afrs. Shepard, yours sin
cerely, 1SOBEL POYNTER.'
It isn't really Ysobel.' ” explained
Dick; “but we thought it would look
more refined.”
Eleanor's eyes smiled, although her
lips did not. “You mustn't make fun of
poor mama.” she said, seriously.
"Fun! Ale! Why, 1 love your moth
er.” he said, vehemently.
Eleanor spoke rather slowly. “Then, I
r.m to look upon you in the light of a
! ossible father-in-law?”
"You may look upon me in any light
you please."’ said the irrepressible Dick,
• I rovided you look. 1 cante here this
afternoon to explain "
“About this letter?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, yes. About this
letter. Well, we're going to live up to
vour mother. If she'll come and bring
von to spend Christmas day with i.s.”
“T don't think she will " Eleanor
l-egan. But there was a knock at tlia
doer.
Dick hastily removed himself to the
rrher enq of tiie sofa. and. holding a
paper m side down. said. "I quite agree
with you that the perspective of this
drawing is not all that it might be.
' Mrs. Shepard's compliments." said Ala-
r!a. stonily regarding an errant flv ou
'lie ceiling, which, deluded by Eleanors
smile into the belief that the summer
had come, had ventured out from a
c: ack-"AIrs. Shepard's compliments, aid
she will have much pleasure in accept
ing Air. and Mrs. Pointer's kind invita
tion fo r herself and Aliss Shepard for
Christmas.” Then she went out and
slammed the door.
7>i. k opened the door and called her
\lark. "Of course. Ata.ria, you t e to
come too”; and Alarm smiled frostily.
“Oh, by the way”—Dick held out his
hand as if going, but lie did not look au
EJeanor—“there's ” He hesitated.
"NVell?” unsuspiciously inquired Elean
or.
"There's one—one-
“One what?"
“One thing T wanted to ask you while
I got the chance.”
"Marin won’t come back.” said Elean
or. hastily, "but I think I hear mamma
getting up."
“Just my luck. But—but—but there's
no time to lose. I wanted to ask you
if you'd ”
•‘If'."' Eleanor smiled radiantly.
"If you’d come too?”
“Why, of course I’m coming."
••But' von don’t understand. Oil! tiiaiiK
goodness, your mother appears to have
gone to sleep" again.”
”L don’t understand you. Perhaps you
wouldn’t mind sitting down again and
explaining?”
Dick sat down beside her. “The fact
is ”
"I always distrust people when they
begin with ‘the faci is’; but ”
"The fact is. Eleanor. I love you with
my whole heart and soul. Dearest, will
you be my wife?”
‘‘Ye-es, Dick!”
"You darling girl!” lie took her In
Ills arms, and it was just as well that
Marta did not reappear on the scene.
Eleanor let him out. after a somewhat
i.rotra.cted leavetaking. AY hen she went
upstairs, even unobservant Airs. Shepard
noticed her heightened color. ”1 have
accepted the invitation or these good-
natured bourgeois people.” said Airs.
Shepard, “in tho hope of shewing them
v,\ our example how Christmas ought
to be spent.”
“nil!" said Eleanor, with well-simulated
indifference, “is It absolutely necessary
that «ve should go. mamma?”
AVhereupon Airs. Shepard firmly re
solved that nothing should induce her to
stay away; and Eleanor, ashamed of
her duplicity, went up to her own Utile
room and burst into happy tears.
TTT.
Airs. Shepard decided to unbend, to
bring herself down to the level of the
bourgeois people who really keep Christ
mas. it is true she had clothed her
self in sombre black: but Eleanor was
radiantly lovely in some sort of mauvy-
lilac creation with black lace over it.
She wore a red rose—‘Dick’s gift—in her
hair, and diffused an atmosphere of sun
shine around her. In deference to Airs.
Shepard’s recent loss (her "poor darling”
had hurriendly departed from this world
to a better some five years ago) Mr.
and ATrs. Poynter and the girls all wore
black. The two boys had put on black
ties to go with their evening things:
•the fire was half out: there was a dim.
religious light: and not a truce of holly
or mistletoe to be seen anywhere. The
furniture, shrouded in dingy coverings,
dimlv suggested a memorial service in
honor of the departed Mr. Shepard: and
an exceedingly bad dinner confirmed tills
impression, for it consisted of a watery
soup maigre. some attenuated fowls with
yellow legs and a marmalade pudding,
together with sour-looking lemonade and
a few withered French plums for dessert.
As the melancholy meal was eaten and
the young couple talked in subdued whis
pers, Airs. Shepard became more at- I
more indignant, for she loved a goo-1
dinner. “J think,” she said, frostily, "at
such a. season, if only in deference t"
the feelings of those around us, w
ought to—to unbend a little.”
"I’m so sorry,” apolgized Mrs. Poynter.
“Of course, as you were kind enough to
come to us, and knowing your recent
loss, we "
"It was five years ago,” said Mrs.
Shepard, with fierce emphasis.
"We toned down our dinner and the—
tiie general look of things."
Mrs. Shepard said that sucli action on
her hostess’s part was wholly unnec
essary. She had been a martyr all her
life, and, In accepting Mrs. Poynter’s in
vitation, had ibeeu quite prepared to sac
rifice her own feelings.
“Perhaps.” declared the hesitating Airs.
Poynter, “it isn’t too late yet.” She
looked at the gloomy faces around her.
Airs. Shepard was so wretched, so hun
gry and thirsty and cold, that she was
prepared to agree to anything. “If r
could have a shawl.” she said, almost
meekly. “Perhaps we might permit, for
once, the young people to enjoy them
selves."
“Tf you really wish it. Are you not
making too great a sacrifice?” asked
Mrs. Poynter.
"Oh, mama!” Eleanor looked at her
mother rather wistfully.
The selfish old woman’s heart was
touched at Iasi. She had accepted tiie
Christmas hospitality of these people,
and they, with the very best intentions
in the world, had made her so exquisite
ly uncomfortable witli their long faces
and woebegone habiliments that she
would have given anything for a slice
of roast turkey, a glass of good port,
and a comic song. “Young people are
very different from what the ywere to
my day,” she said frostily to Airs. Poyn
ter. “It is good of you to remember
my bereavement; but if you will spend
tiie evening in your customary manner,
I will do my best to forget it.”
“If you are not making too great a
sacrifice, suggested Airs. Poynter.
Airs. Shepard thawed at once. These
people had instinctively recognized her
position. Besides, she had heard they
were very well off.
“Won't you come up to my room?”
tactfully asked Airs. Poynter. “There is
a better fir© there, and you could rest
while the young people make the place
look more cheerful.”
Mrs Shephard followed her hostess up
stairs into a. snug little room with a
blazing fire. There were decanters on
the table, and all sorts of nice fruits.
“Supper is generally the great event of
Christmas day with us.” said Airs. Poyn
ter; “that is why we go through the
pretence of eating dinner. Let me give
you a glass of this 1387 port, and make
you comfortable on the sofa. Alt. Poyn
ter has given my son Richard a Christ
mas present of a thousand pounds on
condition that he settles down. He
thinks it a good tiling for young people
to marry when they are young.”
"Indeed!” said Airs. Shepard, almost
genially. "A thousand pounds!” Report
had not exaggerated the snugness of the
family finances.
"Oh. yes; but of course he will do more
Richard if already very comfortably
off." pusued this feminine Alacniavelli.
absently pouring out another glass of
port ,for Eleanor's mother. "If you
don’t mind, then, we will have the usual
Christmas supper. I’ll just make up
the fire and leave you while I see about
one or two little delicacies which might
tempt an invalid's appetite.”
Eleanor's mother had an enjoyoble
nap. When she came down again to the
hall a very different s one met her eyes.
Wreaths of holly and evergreens were
suspended from the ceiling. There was
it great bush of mistletoe hanging from
■the hall lamp. Several pretty girls in
equally pretty frocks w’ere dancing the
lancers, and not a black tie could be
seen among the Poynter family, old Air.
Poynter energetically waltzing his part
ner round, two bars behind time, and
bringing her back in triumph to her
place.
The dancing lasted until ten. Even
that interesting invalid. Eleanor's moth
er, was prevailed upon to be led out by
Air. Poynter just before supper. Tiie
Christmas supper was worthy of the
house of Poynter; it made Airs. Shepard
hungry to look at it. She toyed with
some mock turtle, trifled witli some
real turkey and Alork ham (Mr. Poynter
suggested a little champagne on t he
York hani (just to give it a flavor),
played with a slice of pheasant, ohlig-
ingly assimilated a mince pie, found a
pair of scissors in iter plum pudding,
and, growing younger and friskier every
moment, burnt her fingers with snap
dragon. Three glasses of champagne
and two of the 1887 port put her on
the best possible terms with herself,
with the Foynters. with the whole world,
and when Air. Poynter insisted on lead
ing her out in Sir Roger de Coverley
she quite forgot to be unpleasant.
As soon as Mrs. Shepard tired of Sir
Roger. Air. Poynter took her to The
most comfortable amebair in the room
and sat down beside her. "Beautiful
girl. Aliss Eleanor,” he said, fanning
himself with his red handkerchief.
"You must have been exactly—” Hk
broke off hurriedly.
"She is a good girl.”
“And of such a good family too,’’
mused Air. Poynter. “All, if my son
could only hope to marry into such a
family, he might, under your care, >.e-
.come almost worthy of it.”
"I—I will do my best to influence my
daughter," murmured Airs. Shepard,
casting a look at Eleanor’s happy face
as she came up to them.
Eleanor's mother suddenly got up ami
whispered to Eleanor. "Alost worthy
people, my dear. They know how no-
to presume on any attention one shows
them., T understand that young Mr.
Richard is well off.”
"Oh. mama! .Then you think—”
"NVe shall sec. You—you need not
absolutely discourage the young m:m.
or be unnecessarily harsh to him.
Promise me that my love.”
Eleanor promised.
“(The End.)