“Well, I really think Santa Claus has been very good to us all,” said Jean Lawrence, pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders.
“So do I,” said Nellie Preston as well as she could with a mouthful of chocolates. “Those blessed home folks of mine seem to have divined by instinct the very things I most wanted.”
It was the dusk of Christmas Eve and they were all in Jean Lawrence’s room at No. 16 Chestnut Terrace. No. 16 was a boardinghouse, and boardinghouses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spend Christmas, but Jean’s room, at least, was a pleasant spot, and all the girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other. Christmas came on Sunday that year and the Saturday evening mail at Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one.
Jean had lighted the pink-globed lamp on her table and the mellow light fell over merry faces as the girls chatted about their gifts. On the table was a big white box heaped with roses that betokened a bit of Christmas extravagance on somebody’s part. Jean’s brother had sent them to her from Montreal, and all the girls were enjoying them in common.
No. 16 Chestnut Terrace was overrun with girls generally. But just now only five were left; all the others had gone home for Christmas, but these five could not go and were bent on making the best of it.
Belle and Olive Reynolds, who were sitting on the bed — Jean could never keep them off it — were High School girls; they were said to be always laughing, and even the fact that they could not go home for Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their spirits.
Beth Hamilton, who was hovering over the roses, and Nellie Preston, who was eating candy, were art students, and their homes were too far away to visit. As for Jean Lawrence, she was an orphan, and had no home of her own. She worked on the staff of one of the big city newspapers and the other girls were a little in awe of her cleverness, but her nature was a “chummy” one and her room was a favourite rendezvous. Everybody liked frank, open-handed and hearted Jean.
“It was so funny to see the postman when he came this evening,” said Olive. “He just bulged with parcels. They were sticking out in every direction.”
“We all got our share of them,” said Jean with a sigh of content.
“Even the cook got six — I counted.”
“Miss Allen didn’t get a thing — not even a letter,” said Beth quickly. Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls didn’t.
“I forgot Miss Allen. No, I don’t believe she did,” answered Jean thoughtfully as she twisted up her pretty hair. “How dismal it must be to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times. Ugh! I’m glad I have friends.”
“I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and letters,” Beth went on. “I happened to look up once, and such an expression as was on her face, girls! It was pathetic and sad and envious all at once. It really made me feel bad — for five minutes,” she concluded honestly.
“Hasn’t Miss Allen any friends at all?” asked Beth.
“No, I don’t think she has,” answered Jean. “She has lived here for fourteen years, so Mrs. Pickrell says. Think of that, girls! Fourteen years at Chestnut Terrace! Is it any wonder that she is thin and dried-up and snappy?”
“Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere,” said Beth. “Dear me! She must feel lonely now when everybody else is being remembered by their friends. I can’t forget her face tonight; it actually haunts me. Girls, how would you feel if you hadn’t anyone belonging to you, and if nobody thought about you at Christmas?”
“Ow!” said Olive, as if the mere idea made her shiver.
A little silence followed. To tell the truth, none of them liked Miss Allen. They knew that she did not like them either, but considered them frivolous and pert, and complained when they made a racket.
“The skeleton at the feast,” Jean called her, and certainly the presence of the pale, silent, discontented-looking woman at the No. 16 table did not tend to heighten its festivity.
Presently Jean said with a dramatic flourish, “Girls, I have an inspiration — a Christmas inspiration!”
“What is it?” cried four voices.
“Just this. Let us give Miss Allen a Christmas surprise. She has not received a single present and I’m sure she feels lonely. Just think how we would feel if we were in her place.”
“That is true,” said Olive thoughtfully. “Do you know, girls, this evening I went to her room with a message from Mrs. Pickrell, and I do believe she had been crying. Her room looked dreadfully bare and cheerless, too. I think she is very poor. What are we to do, Jean?”
“Let us each give her something nice. We can put the things just outside of her door so that she will see them whenever she opens it. I’ll give her some of Fred’s roses too, and I’ll write a Christmassy letter in my very best style to go with them,” said Jean, warming up to her ideas as she talked.
The other girls caught her spirit and entered into the plan with enthusiasm.
“Splendid!” cried Beth. “Jean, it is an inspiration, sure enough. Haven’t we been horribly selfish — thinking of nothing but our own gifts and fun and pleasure? I really feel ashamed.”
“Let us do the thing up the very best way we can,” said Nellie, forgetting even her beloved chocolates in her eagerness. “The shops are open yet. Let us go up town and invest.”
Five minutes later five capped and jacketed figures were scurrying up the street in the frosty, starlit December dusk. Miss Allen in her cold little room heard their gay voices and sighed. She was crying by herself in the dark. It was Christmas for everybody but her, she thought drearily.
In an hour the girls came back with their purchases.
“Now, let’s hold a council of war,” said Jean jubilantly. “I hadn’t the faintest idea what Miss Allen would like so I just guessed wildly. I got her a lace handkerchief and a big bottle of perfume and a painted photograph frame — and I’ll stick my own photo in it for fun. That was really all I could afford. Christmas purchases have left my purse dreadfully lean.”
“I got her a glove-box and a pin tray,” said Belle, “and Olive got her a calendar and Whittier’s poems. And besides we are going to give her half of that big plummy fruit cake Mother sent us from home. I’m sure she hasn’t tasted anything so delicious for years, for fruit cakes don’t grow on Chestnut Terrace and she never goes anywhere else for a meal.”
Beth had bought a pretty cup and saucer and said she meant to give one of her pretty water-colours too. Nellie, true to her reputation, had invested in a big box of chocolate creams, a gorgeously striped candy cane, a bag of oranges, and a brilliant lampshade of rose-coloured crepe paper to top off with.
“It makes such a lot of show for the money,” she explained. “I am bankrupt, like Jean.”
“Well, we’ve got a lot of pretty things,” said Jean in a tone of satisfaction. “Now we must do them up nicely. Will you wrap them in tissue paper, girls, and tie them with baby ribbon — here’s a box of it — while I write that letter?”
While the others chatted over their parcels Jean wrote her letter, and Jean could write delightful letters. She had a decided talent in that respect, and her correspondents all declared her letters to be things of beauty and joy forever. She put her best into Miss Allen’s Christmas letter. Since then she has written many bright and clever things, but I do not believe she ever in her life wrote anything more genuinely original and delightful than that letter. Besides, it breathed the very spirit of Christmas, and all the girls declared that it was splendid.
“You must all sign it now,” said Jean, “and I’ll put it in one of those big envelopes; and, Nellie, won’t you write her name on it in fancy letters?”
Which Nellie proceeded to do, and furthermore embellished the envelope by a border of chubby cherubs, dancing hand in hand around it and a sketch of No. 16 Chestnut Terrace in the corner in lieu of a stamp. Not content with this she hunted out a huge sheet of drawing paper and drew upon it an original pen-and-ink design after her own heart. A dudish cat — Miss Allen was fond of the No. 16 cat if she could be said to be fond of anything — was portrayed seated on a rocker arrayed in smoking jacket and cap with a cigar waved airily aloft in one paw while the other held out a placard bearing the legend “Merry Christmas.” A second cat in full street costume bowed politely, hat in paw, and waved a banner inscribed with “Happy New Year,” while faintly suggested kittens gambolled around the border. The girls laughed until they cried over it and voted it to be the best thing Nellie had yet done in original work.
All this had taken time and it was past eleven o’clock. Miss Allen had cried herself to sleep long ago and everybody else in Chestnut Terrace was abed when five figures cautiously crept down the hall, headed by Jean with a dim lamp. Outside of Miss Allen’s door the procession halted and the girls silently arranged their gifts on the floor.
“That’s done,” whispered Jean in a tone of satisfaction as they tiptoed back. “And now let us go to bed or Mrs. Pickrell, bless her heart, will be down on us for burning so much midnight oil. Oil has gone up, you know, girls.”
It was in the early morning that Miss Allen opened her door. But early as it was, another door down the hall was half open too and five rosy faces were peering cautiously out. The girls had been up for an hour for fear they would miss the sight and were all in Nellie’s room, which commanded a view of Miss Allen’s door.
That lady’s face was a study. Amazement, incredulity, wonder, chased each other over it, succeeded by a glow of pleasure. On the floor before her was a snug little pyramid of parcels topped by Jean’s letter. On a chair behind it was a bowl of delicious hothouse roses and Nellie’s placard.
Miss Allen looked down the hall but saw nothing, for Jean had slammed the door just in time. Half an hour later when they were going down to breakfast Miss Allen came along the hall with outstretched hands to meet them. She had been crying again, but I think her tears were happy ones; and she was smiling now. A cluster of Jean’s roses were pinned on her breast.
“Oh, girls, girls,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “I can never thank you enough. It was so kind and sweet of you. You don’t know how much good you have done me.”
Breakfast was an unusually cheerful affair at No. 16 that morning. There was no skeleton at the feast and everybody was beaming. Miss Allen laughed and talked like a girl herself.
“Oh, how surprised I was!” she said. “The roses were like a bit of summer, and those cats of Nellie’s were so funny and delightful. And your letter too, Jean! I cried and laughed over it. I shall read it every day for a year.”
After breakfast everyone went to Christmas service. The girls went uptown to the church they attended. The city was very beautiful in the morning sunshine. There had been a white frost in the night and the tree-lined avenues and public squares seemed like glimpses of fairyland.
“How lovely the world is,” said Jean.
“This is really the very happiest Christmas morning I have ever known,” declared Nellie. “I never felt so really Christmassy in my inmost soul before.”
“I suppose,” said Beth thoughtfully, “that it is because we have discovered for ourselves the old truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive. I’ve always known it, in a way, but I never realized it before.”
“Blessing on Jean’s Christmas inspiration,” said Nellie. “But, girls, let us try to make it an all-the-year-round inspiration, I say. We can bring a little of our own sunshine into Miss Allen’s life as long as we live with her.”
“Amen to that!” said Jean heartily. “Oh, listen, girls — the Christmas chimes!”
And over all the beautiful city was wafted the grand old message of peace on earth and good will to all the world.
“Phil, I’m getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike civilization?”
The speaker was my chum, Frank Ward. We were home from our academy for the Christmas holidays and had been amusing ourselves on this sunshiny December afternoon by a tramp through the “back lands,” as the barrens that swept away south behind the village were called. They were grown over with scrub maple and spruce, and were quite pathless save for meandering sheep tracks that crossed and recrossed, but led apparently nowhere.
Frank and I did not know exactly where we were, but the back lands were not so extensive but that we would come out somewhere if we kept on. It was getting late and we wished to go home.
“I have an idea that we ought to strike civilization somewhere up the Enderly Road pretty soon,” I answered.
“Do you call that civilization?” said Frank, with a laugh.
No Blackburn Hill boy was ever known to miss an opportunity of flinging a slur at Enderly Road, even if no Enderly Roader were by to feel the sting.
Enderly Road was a miserable little settlement straggling back from Blackburn Hill. It was a forsaken looking place, and the people, as a rule, were poor and shiftless. Between Blackburn Hill and Enderly Road very little social intercourse existed and, as the Road people resented what they called the pride of Blackburn Hill, there was a good deal of bad feeling between the two districts.
Presently Frank and I came out on the Enderly Road. We sat on the fence a few minutes to rest and discuss our route home. “If we go by the road it’s three miles,” said Frank. “Isn’t there a short cut?”
“There ought to be one by the wood-lane that comes out by Jacob Hart’s,” I answered, “but I don’t know where to strike it.”
“Here is someone coming now; we’ll inquire,” said Frank, looking up the curve of the hard-frozen road. The “someone” was a little girl of about ten years old, who was trotting along with a basketful of school books on her arm. She was a pale, pinched little thing, and her jacket and red hood seemed very old and thin.
“Hello, missy,” I said, as she came up, and then I stopped, for I saw she had been crying.
“What is the matter?” asked Frank, who was much more at ease with children than I was, and had always a warm spot in his heart for their small troubles. “Has your teacher kept you in for being naughty?”
The mite dashed her little red knuckles across her eyes and answered indignantly, “No, indeed. I stayed after school with Minnie Lawler to sweep the floor.”
“And did you and Minnie quarrel, and is that why you are crying?” asked Frank solemnly.
“Minnie and I never quarrel. I am crying because we can’t have the school decorated on Monday for the examination, after all. The Dickeys have gone back on us … after promising, too,” and the tears began to swell up in the blue eyes again.
“Very bad behaviour on the part of the Dickeys,” commented Frank. “But can’t you decorate the school without them?”
“Why, of course not. They are the only big boys in the school. They said they would cut the boughs, and bring a ladder tomorrow and help us nail the wreaths up, and now they won’t … and everything is spoiled … and Miss Davis will be so disappointed.”
By dint of questioning Frank soon found out the whole story. The semi-annual public examination was to be held on Monday afternoon, the day before Christmas. Miss Davis had been drilling her little flock for the occasion; and a program of recitations, speeches, and dialogues had been prepared. Our small informant, whose name was Maggie Bates, together with Minnie Lawler and several other little girls, had conceived the idea that it would be a fine thing to decorate the schoolroom with greens. For this it was necessary to ask the help of the boys. Boys were scarce at Enderly school, but the Dickeys, three in number, had promised to see that the thing was done.
“And now they won’t,” sobbed Maggie. “Matt Dickey is mad at Miss Davis ‘cause she stood him on the floor today for not learning his lesson, and he says he won’t do a thing nor let any of the other boys help us. Matt just makes all the boys do as he says. I feel dreadful bad, and so does Minnie.”
“Well, I wouldn’t cry any more about it,” said Frank consolingly. “Crying won’t do any good, you know. Can you tell us where to find the wood-lane that cuts across to Blackburn Hill?” Maggie could, and gave us minute directions. So, having thanked her, we left her to pursue her disconsolate way and betook ourselves homeward.
“I would like to spoil Matt Dickey’s little game,” said Frank. “He is evidently trying to run things at Enderly Road school and revenge himself on the teacher. Let us put a spoke in his wheel and do Maggie a good turn as well.”
“Agreed. But how?”
Frank had a plan ready to hand and, when we reached home, we took his sisters, Carrie and Mabel, into our confidence; and the four of us worked to such good purpose all the next day, which was Saturday, that by night everything was in readiness.
At dusk Frank and I set out for the Enderly Road, carrying a basket, a small step-ladder, an unlit lantern, a hammer, and a box of tacks. It was dark when we reached the Enderly Road schoolhouse. Fortunately, it was quite out of sight of any inhabited spot, being surrounded by woods. Hence, mysterious lights in it at strange hours would not be likely to attract attention.
The door was locked, but we easily got in by a window, lighted our lantern, and went to work. The schoolroom was small, and the old-fashioned furniture bore marks of hard usage; but everything was very snug, and the carefully swept floor and dusted desks bore testimony to the neatness of our small friend Maggie and her chum Minnie.
Our basket was full of mottoes made from letters cut out of cardboard and covered with lissome sprays of fir. They were, moreover, adorned with gorgeous pink and red tissue roses, which Carrie and Mabel had contributed. We had considerable trouble in getting them tacked up properly, but when we had succeeded, and had furthermore surmounted doors, windows, and blackboard with wreaths of green, the little Enderly Road schoolroom was quite transformed.
“It looks nice,” said Frank in a tone of satisfaction. “Hope Maggie will like it.”
We swept up the litter we had made, and then scrambled out of the window.
“I’d like to see Matt Dickey’s face when he comes Monday morning,” I laughed, as we struck into the back lands.
“I’d like to see that midget of a Maggie’s,” said Frank. “See here, Phil, let’s attend the examination Monday afternoon. I’d like to see our decorations in daylight.”
We decided to do so, and also thought of something else. Snow fell all day Sunday, so that, on Monday morning, sleighs had to be brought out. Frank and I drove down to the store and invested a considerable share of our spare cash in a varied assortment of knick-knacks. After dinner we drove through to the Enderly Road schoolhouse, tied our horse in a quiet spot, and went in. Our arrival created quite a sensation for, as a rule, Blackburn Hillites did not patronize Enderly Road functions. Miss Davis, the pale, tired-looking little teacher, was evidently pleased, and we were given seats of honour next to the minister on the platform.
Our decorations really looked very well, and were further enhanced by two large red geraniums in full bloom which, it appeared, Maggie had brought from home to adorn the teacher’s desk. The side benches were lined with Enderly Road parents, and all the pupils were in their best attire. Our friend Maggie was there, of course, and she smiled and nodded towards the wreaths when she caught our eyes.
The examination was a decided success, and the program which followed was very creditable indeed. Maggie and Minnie, in particular, covered themselves with glory, both in class and on the platform. At its close, while the minister was making his speech, Frank slipped out; when the minister sat down the door opened and Santa Claus himself, with big fur coat, ruddy mask, and long white beard, strode into the room with a huge basket on his arm, amid a chorus of surprised “Ohs” from old and young.
Wonderful things came out of that basket. There was some little present for every child there — tops, knives, and whistles for the boys, dolls and ribbons for the girls, and a “prize” box of candy for everybody, all of which Santa Claus presented with appropriate remarks. It was an exciting time, and it would have been hard to decide which were the most pleased, parents, pupils, or teacher.
In the confusion Santa Claus discreetly disappeared, and school was dismissed. Frank, having tucked his toggery away in the sleigh, was waiting for us outside, and we were promptly pounced upon by Maggie and Minnie, whose long braids were already adorned with the pink silk ribbons which had been their gifts.
“You decorated the school,” cried Maggie excitedly. “I know you did. I told Minnie it was you the minute I saw it.”
“You’re dreaming, child,” said Frank.
“Oh, no, I’m not,” retorted Maggie shrewdly, “and wasn’t Matt Dickey mad this morning! Oh, it was such fun. I think you are two real nice boys and so does Minnie — don’t you Minnie?”
Minnie nodded gravely. Evidently Maggie did the talking in their partnership.
“This has been a splendid examination,” said Maggie, drawing a long breath. “Real Christmassy, you know. We never had such a good time before.”
“Well, it has paid, don’t you think?” asked Frank, as we drove home.
“Rather,” I answered.
It did “pay” in other ways than the mere pleasure of it. There was always a better feeling between the Roaders and the Hillites thereafter. The big brothers of the little girls, to whom our Christmas surprise had been such a treat, thought it worthwhile to bury the hatchet, and quarrels between the two villages became things of the past.
When Lucy Rose met Aunt Cyrilla coming downstairs, somewhat flushed and breathless from her ascent to the garret, with a big, flat-covered basket hanging over her plump arm, she gave a little sigh of despair. Lucy Rose had done her brave best for some years — in fact, ever since she had put up her hair and lengthened her skirts — to break Aunt Cyrilla of the habit of carrying that basket with her every time she went to Pembroke; but Aunt Cyrilla still insisted on taking it, and only laughed at what she called Lucy Rose’s “finicky notions.” Lucy Rose had a horrible, haunting idea that it was extremely provincial for her aunt always to take the big basket, packed full of country good things, whenever she went to visit Edward and Geraldine. Geraldine was so stylish, and might think it queer; and then Aunt Cyrilla always would carry it on her arm and give cookies and apples and molasses taffy out of it to every child she encountered and, just as often as not, to older folks too. Lucy Rose, when she went to town with Aunt Cyrilla, felt chagrined over this — all of which goes to prove that Lucy was as yet very young and had a great deal to learn in this world.
That troublesome worry over what Geraldine would think nerved her to make a protest in this instance.
“Now, Aunt C’rilla,” she pleaded, “you’re surely not going to take that funny old basket to Pembroke this time — Christmas Day and all.”
“‘Deed and ‘deed I am,” returned Aunt Cyrilla briskly, as she put it on the table and proceeded to dust it out. “I never went to see Edward and Geraldine since they were married that I didn’t take a basket of good things along with me for them, and I’m not going to stop now. As for it’s being Christmas, all the more reason. Edward is always real glad to get some of the old farmhouse goodies. He says they beat city cooking all hollow, and so they do.”
“But it’s so countrified,” moaned Lucy Rose.
“Well, I am countrified,” said Aunt Cyrilla firmly, “and so are you. And what’s more, I don’t see that it’s anything to be ashamed of. You’ve got some real silly pride about you, Lucy Rose. You’ll grow out of it in time, but just now it is giving you a lot of trouble.”
“The basket is a lot of trouble,” said Lucy Rose crossly. “You’re always mislaying it or afraid you will. And it does look so funny to be walking through the streets with that big, bulgy basket hanging on your arm.”
“I’m not a mite worried about its looks,” returned Aunt Cyrilla calmly. “As for its being a trouble, why, maybe it is, but I have that, and other people have the pleasure of it. Edward and Geraldine don’t need it — I know that — but there may be those that will. And if it hurts your feelings to walk ‘longside of a countrified old lady with a countrified basket, why, you can just fall behind, as it were.”
Aunt Cyrilla nodded and smiled good-humouredly, and Lucy Rose, though she privately held to her own opinion, had to smile too.
“Now, let me see,” said Aunt Cyrilla reflectively, tapping the snowy kitchen table with the point of her plump, dimpled forefinger, “what shall I take? That big fruit cake for one thing — Edward does like my fruit cake; and that cold boiled tongue for another. Those three mince pies too, they’d spoil before we got back or your uncle’d make himself sick eating them — mince pie is his besetting sin. And that little stone bottle full of cream — Geraldine may carry any amount of style, but I’ve yet to see her look down on real good country cream, Lucy Rose; and another bottle of my raspberry vinegar. That plate of jelly cookies and doughnuts will please the children and fill up the chinks, and you can bring me that box of ice-cream candy out of the pantry, and that bag of striped candy sticks your uncle brought home from the corner last night. And apples, of course — three or four dozen of those good eaters — and a little pot of my greengage preserves — Edward’ll like that. And some sandwiches and pound cake for a snack for ourselves. Now, I guess that will do for eatables. The presents for the children can go in on top. There’s a doll for Daisy and the little boat your uncle made for Ray and a tatted lace handkerchief apiece for the twins, and the crochet hood for the baby. Now, is that all?”
“There’s a cold roast chicken in the pantry,” said Lucy Rose wickedly, “and the pig Uncle Leo killed is hanging up in the porch. Couldn’t you put them in too?”
Aunt Cyrilla smiled broadly. “Well, I guess we’ll leave the pig alone; but since you have reminded me of it, the chicken may as well go in. I can make room.”
Lucy Rose, in spite of her prejudices, helped with the packing and, not having been trained under Aunt Cyrilla’s eye for nothing, did it very well too, with much clever economy of space. But when Aunt Cyrilla had put in as a finishing touch a big bouquet of pink and white everlastings, and tied the bulging covers down with a firm hand, Lucy Rose stood over the basket and whispered vindictively:
“Some day I’m going to burn this basket — when I get courage enough. Then there’ll be an end of lugging it everywhere we go like a — like an old market-woman.”
Uncle Leopold came in just then, shaking his head dubiously. He was not going to spend Christmas with Edward and Geraldine, and perhaps the prospect of having to cook and eat his Christmas dinner all alone made him pessimistic.
“I mistrust you folks won’t get to Pembroke tomorrow,” he said sagely. “It’s going to storm.”
Aunt Cyrilla did not worry over this. She believed matters of this kind were foreordained, and she slept calmly. But Lucy Rose got up three times in the night to see if it were storming, and when she did sleep had horrible nightmares of struggling through blinding snowstorms dragging Aunt Cyrilla’s Christmas basket along with her.
It was not snowing in the early morning, and Uncle Leopold drove Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose and the basket to the station, four miles off. When they reached there the air was thick with flying flakes. The stationmaster sold them their tickets with a grim face.
“If there’s any more snow comes, the trains might as well keep Christmas too,” he said. “There’s been so much snow already that traffic is blocked half the time, and now there ain’t no place to shovel the snow off onto.”
Aunt Cyrilla said that if the train were to get to Pembroke in time for Christmas, it would get there; and she opened her basket and gave the stationmaster and three small boys an apple apiece.
“That’s the beginning,” groaned Lucy Rose to herself.
When their train came along Aunt Cyrilla established herself in one seat and her basket in another, and looked beamingly around her at her fellow travellers.
These were few in number — a delicate little woman at the end of the car, with a baby and four other children, a young girl across the aisle with a pale, pretty face, a sunburned lad three seats ahead in a khaki uniform, a very handsome, imposing old lady in a sealskin coat ahead of him, and a thin young man with spectacles opposite.
“A minister,” reflected Aunt Cyrilla, beginning to classify, “who takes better care of other folks’ souls than of his own body; and that woman in the sealskin is discontented and cross at something — got up too early to catch the train, maybe; and that young chap must be one of the boys not long out of the hospital. That woman’s children look as if they hadn’t enjoyed a square meal since they were born; and if that girl across from me has a mother, I’d like to know what the woman means, letting her daughter go from home in this weather in clothes like that.”
Lucy Rose merely wondered uncomfortably what the others thought of Aunt Cyrilla’s basket.
They expected to reach Pembroke that night, but as the day wore on the storm grew worse. Twice the train had to stop while the train hands dug it out. The third time it could not go on. It was dusk when the conductor came through the train, replying brusquely to the questions of the anxious passengers.
“A nice lookout for Christmas — no, impossible to go on or back — track blocked for miles — what’s that, madam? — no, no station near — woods for miles. We’re here for the night. These storms of late have played the mischief with everything.”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Lucy Rose.
Aunt Cyrilla looked at her basket complacently. “At any rate, we won’t starve,” she said.
The pale, pretty girl seemed indifferent. The sealskin lady looked crosser than ever. The khaki boy said, “Just my luck,” and two of the children began to cry. Aunt Cyrilla took some apples and striped candy sticks from her basket and carried them to them. She lifted the oldest into her ample lap and soon had them all around her, laughing and contented.
The rest of the travellers straggled over to the corner and drifted into conversation. The khaki boy said it was hard lines not to get home for Christmas, after all.
“I was invalided from South Africa three months ago, and I’ve been in the hospital at Netley ever since. Reached Halifax three days ago and telegraphed the old folks I’d eat my Christmas dinner with them, and to have an extra-big turkey because I didn’t have any last year. They’ll be badly disappointed.”
He looked disappointed too. One khaki sleeve hung empty by his side. Aunt Cyrilla passed him an apple.
“We were all going down to Grandpa’s for Christmas,” said the little mother’s oldest boy dolefully. “We’ve never been there before, and it’s just too bad.”
He looked as if he wanted to cry but thought better of it and bit off a mouthful of candy.
“Will there be any Santa Claus on the train?” demanded his small sister tearfully. “Jack says there won’t.”
“I guess he’ll find you out,” said Aunt Cyrilla reassuringly.
The pale, pretty girl came up and took the baby from the tired mother. “What a dear little fellow,” she said softly.
“Are you going home for Christmas too?” asked Aunt Cyrilla.
The girl shook her head. “I haven’t any home. I’m just a shop girl out of work at present, and I’m going to Pembroke to look for some.”
Aunt Cyrilla went to her basket and took out her box of cream candy. “I guess we might as well enjoy ourselves. Let’s eat it all up and have a good time. Maybe we’ll get down to Pembroke in the morning.”
The little group grew cheerful as they nibbled, and even the pale girl brightened up. The little mother told Aunt Cyrilla her story aside. She had been long estranged from her family, who had disapproved of her marriage. Her husband had died the previous summer, leaving her in poor circumstances.
“Father wrote to me last week and asked me to let bygones be bygones and come home for Christmas. I was so glad. And the children’s hearts were set on it. It seems too bad that we are not to get there. I have to be back at work the morning after Christmas.”
The khaki boy came up again and shared the candy. He told amusing stories of campaigning in South Africa. The minister came too, and listened, and even the sealskin lady turned her head over her shoulder.
By and by the children fell asleep, one on Aunt Cyrilla’s lap and one on Lucy Rose’s, and two on the seat. Aunt Cyrilla and the pale girl helped the mother make up beds for them. The minister gave his overcoat and the sealskin lady came forward with a shawl.
“This will do for the baby,” she said.
“We must get up some Santa Claus for these youngsters,” said the khaki boy. “Let’s hang their stockings on the wall and fill ‘em up as best we can. I’ve nothing about me but some hard cash and a jack-knife. I’ll give each of ‘em a quarter and the boy can have the knife.”
“I’ve nothing but money either,” said the sealskin lady regretfully.
Aunt Cyrilla glanced at the little mother. She had fallen asleep with her head against the seat-back.
“I’ve got a basket over there,” said Aunt Cyrilla firmly, “and I’ve some presents in it that I was taking to my nephew’s children. I’m going to give ‘em to these. As for the money, I think the mother is the one for it to go to. She’s been telling me her story, and a pitiful one it is. Let’s make up a little purse among us for a Christmas present.”
The idea met with favour. The khaki boy passed his cap and everybody contributed. The sealskin lady put in a crumpled note. When Aunt Cyrilla straightened it out she saw that it was for twenty dollars.
Meanwhile, Lucy Rose had brought the basket. She smiled at Aunt Cyrilla as she lugged it down the aisle and Aunt Cyrilla smiled back. Lucy Rose had never touched that basket of her own accord before.
Ray’s boat went to Jacky, and Daisy’s doll to his oldest sister, the twins’ lace handkerchiefs to the two smaller girls and the hood to the baby. Then the stockings were filled up with doughnuts and jelly cookies and the money was put in an envelope and pinned to the little mother’s jacket.
“That baby is such a dear little fellow,” said the sealskin lady gently. “He looks something like my little son. He died eighteen Christmases ago.”
Aunt Cyrilla put her hand over the lady’s kid glove. “So did mine,” she said. Then the two women smiled tenderly at each other. Afterwards they rested from their labours and all had what Aunt Cyrilla called a “snack” of sandwiches and pound cake. The khaki boy said he hadn’t tasted anything half so good since he left home.
“They didn’t give us pound cake in South Africa,” he said.
When morning came the storm was still raging. The children wakened and went wild with delight over their stockings. The little mother found her envelope and tried to utter thanks and broke down; and nobody knew what to say or do, when the conductor fortunately came in and made a diversion by telling them they might as well resign themselves to spending Christmas on the train.
“This is serious,” said the khaki boy, “when you consider that we’ve no provisions. Don’t mind for myself, used to half rations or no rations at all. But these kiddies will have tremendous appetites.”
Then Aunt Cyrilla rose to the occasion.
“I’ve got some emergency rations here,” she announced. “There’s plenty for all and we’ll have our Christmas dinner, although a cold one. Breakfast first thing. There’s a sandwich apiece left and we must fill up on what is left of the cookies and doughnuts and save the rest for a real good spread at dinner time. The only thing is, I haven’t any bread.”
“I’ve a box of soda crackers,” said the little mother eagerly.
Nobody in that car will ever forget that Christmas. To begin with, after breakfast they had a concert. The khaki boy gave two recitations, sang three songs, and gave a whistling solo. Lucy Rose gave three recitations and the minister a comic reading. The pale shop girl sang two songs. It was agreed that the khaki boy’s whistling solo was the best number, and Aunt Cyrilla gave him the bouquet of everlastings as a reward of merit.
Then the conductor came in with the cheerful news that the storm was almost over and he thought the track would be cleared in a few hours.
“If we can get to the next station we’ll be all right,” he said. “The branch joins the main line there and the tracks will be clear.”
At noon they had dinner. The train hands were invited in to share it. The minister carved the chicken with the brakeman’s jack-knife and the khaki boy cut up the tongue and the mince pies, while the sealskin lady mixed the raspberry vinegar with its due proportion of water. Bits of paper served as plates. The train furnished a couple of glasses, a tin pint cup was discovered and given to the children, Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose and the sealskin lady drank, turn about, from the latter’s graduated medicine glass, the shop girl and the little mother shared one of the empty bottles, and the khaki boy, the minister, and the train men drank out of the other bottle.
Everybody declared they had never enjoyed a meal more in their lives. Certainly it was a merry one, and Aunt Cyrilla’s cooking was never more appreciated; indeed, the bones of the chicken and the pot of preserves were all that was left. They could not eat the preserves because they had no spoons, so Aunt Cyrilla gave them to the little mother.
When all was over, a hearty vote of thanks was passed to Aunt Cyrilla and her basket. The sealskin lady wanted to know how she made her pound cake, and the khaki boy asked for her receipt for jelly cookies. And when two hours later the conductor came in and said the snowploughs had got along and they’d soon be starting, they all wondered if it could really be less than twenty-four hours since they met.
“I feel as if I’d been campaigning with you all my life,” said the khaki boy.
At the next station they all parted. The little mother and the children had to take the next train back home. The minister stayed there, and the khaki boy and the sealskin lady changed trains. The sealskin lady shook Aunt Cyrilla’s hand. She no longer looked discontented or cross.
“This has been the pleasantest Christmas I have ever spent,” she said heartily. “I shall never forget that wonderful basket of yours. The little shop girl is going home with me. I’ve promised her a place in my husband’s store.”
When Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose reached Pembroke there was nobody to meet them because everyone had given up expecting them. It was not far from the station to Edward’s house and Aunt Cyrilla elected to walk.
“I’ll carry the basket,” said Lucy Rose.
Aunt Cyrilla relinquished it with a smile. Lucy Rose smiled too.
“It’s a blessed old basket,” said the latter, “and I love it. Please forget all the silly things I ever said about it, Aunt C’rilla.”
“Well, so it’s all settled,” said Stephen Falsom.
“Yes,” assented Alexina. “Yes, it is,” she repeated, as if somebody had questioned it.
Then Alexina sighed. Whatever “it” was, the fact of its being settled did not seem to bring Alexina any great peace of mind — nor Stephen either, judging from his face, which wore a sort of “suffer and be strong” expression just then. “When do you go?” said Alexina, after a pause, during which she had frowned out of the window and across the Tracy yard. Josephine Tracy and her brother Duncan were strolling about the yard in the pleasant December sunshine, arm in arm, laughing and talking. They appeared to be a nice, harmless pair of people, but the sight of them did not seem to please Alexina.
“Just as soon as we can sell the furniture and move away,” said Stephen moodily. “Heigh-ho! So this is what all our fine ambitions have come to, Lexy, your music and my M.D. A place in a department store for you, and one in a lumber mill for me.”
“I don’t dare to complain,” said Alexina slowly. “We ought to be so thankful to get the positions. I am thankful. And I don’t mind so very much about my music. But I do wish you could have gone to college, Stephen.”
“Never mind me,” said Stephen, brightening up determinedly. “I’m going to go into the lumber business enthusiastically. You don’t know what unsuspected talents I may develop along that line. The worst of it is that we can’t be together. But I’ll keep my eyes open, and perhaps I’ll find a place for you in Lessing.”
Alexina said nothing. Her separation from Stephen was the one point in their fortunes she could not bear to discuss. There were times when Alexina did not see how she was going to exist without Stephen. But she never said so to him. She thought he had enough to worry him without her making matters worse. “Well,” said Stephen, getting up, “I’ll run down to the office. And see here, Lexy. Day after tomorrow is Christmas. Are we going to celebrate it at all? If so I’d better order the turkey.”
Alexina looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, Stephen. We’re short of money, you know, and the fund is dwindling every day. Don’t you think it’s a little extravagant to have a turkey for two people? And somehow I don’t feel a bit Christmassy. I think I’d rather spend it just like any other day and try to forget that it is Christmas. Everything would be so different.”
“That’s true, Lexy. And we must look after the bawbees closely, I’ll admit.” When Stephen had gone out Alexina cried a little, not very much, because she didn’t want her eyes to be red against Stephen’s return. But she had to cry a little. As she had said, everything was so different from what it had been a year ago. Their father had been alive then and they had been very cosy and happy in the little house at the end of the street. There had been no mother there since Alexina’s birth sixteen years ago. Alexina had kept house for her father and Stephen since she was ten. Stephen was a clever boy and intended to study medicine. Alexina had a good voice, and something was to be done about training it. The Tracys lived next door to them. Duncan Tracy was Stephen’s particular chum, and Josephine Tracy was Alexina’s dearest friend. Alexina was never lonely when Josie was near by to laugh and chat and plan with.
Then, all at once, troubles came. In June the firm of which Mr. Falsom was a member failed. There was some stigma attached to the failure, too, although the blame did not rest upon Mr. Falsom, but with his partner. Worry and anxiety aggravated the heart trouble from which he had suffered for some time, and a month later he died. Alexina and Stephen were left alone to face the knowledge that they were penniless, and must look about for some way of supporting themselves. At first they hoped to be able to get something to do in Thorndale, so that they might keep their home. This proved impossible. After much discouragement and disappointment Stephen had secured a position in the lumber mill at Lessing, and Alexina was promised a place in a departmental store in the city.
To make matters worse, Duncan Tracy and Stephen had quarrelled in October. It was only a boyish disagreement over some trifle, but bitter words had passed. Duncan, who was a quick-tempered lad, had twitted Stephen with his father’s failure, and Stephen had resented it hotly. Duncan was sorry for and ashamed of his words as soon as they were uttered, but he would not humble himself to say so. Alexina had taken Stephen’s part and her manner to Josie assumed a tinge of coldness. Josie quickly noticed and resented it, and the breach between the two girls widened almost insensibly, until they barely spoke when they met. Each blamed the other and cherished bitterness in her heart.
When Stephen came home from the post office he looked excited.
“Were there any letters?” asked Alexina.
“Well, rather! One from Uncle James!”
“Uncle James,” exclaimed Alexina, incredulously.
“Yes, beloved sis. Oh, you needn’t try to look as surprised as I did. And I ordered the turkey after all. Uncle James has invited himself here to dinner on Christmas Day. You’ll have a chance to show your culinary skill, for you know we’ve always been told that Uncle James was a gourmand.”
Alexina read the letter in a maze. It was a brief epistle, stating that the writer wished to make the acquaintance of his niece and nephew, and would visit them on Christmas Day. That was all. But Alexina instantly saw a future of rosy possibilities. For Uncle James, who lived in the city and was really a great-uncle, had never taken the slightest notice of their family since his quarrel with their father twenty years ago; but this looked as if Uncle James were disposed to hold out the olive branch.
“Oh, Stephen, if he likes you, and if he offers to educate you!” breathed Alexina. “Perhaps he will if he is favourably impressed. But we’ll have to be so careful, he is so whimsical and odd, at least everybody has always said so. A little thing may turn the scale either way. Anyway, we must have a good dinner for him. I’ll have plum pudding and mince pie.”
For the next thirty-six hours Alexina lived in a whirl. There was so much to do. The little house was put in apple pie order from top to bottom, and Stephen was set to stoning raisins and chopping meat and beating eggs. Alexina was perfectly reckless; no matter how big a hole it made in their finances Uncle James must have a proper Christmas dinner. A favourable impression must be made. Stephen’s whole future — Alexina did not think about her own at all just then — might depend on it.
Christmas morning came, fine and bright and warm. It was more like a morning in early spring than in December, for there was no snow or frost, and the air was moist and balmy. Alexina was up at daybreak, cleaning and decorating at a furious rate. By eleven o’clock everything was finished or going forward briskly. The plum pudding was bubbling in the pot, the turkey — Burton’s plumpest — was sizzling in the oven. The shelf in the pantry bore two mince pies upon which Alexina was willing to stake her culinary reputation. And Stephen had gone to the train to meet Uncle James.