1
Next evening, Cecile revelled even more than usual in the luxury of being able to stay at home.
It was after dinner; she was sitting on the sofa in her little boudoir with Dolf and Christie, an arm thrown round each of them, sitting between them, so young, like an elder sister. In her low voice she was telling them:
“Judah came near to him, and said, O my Lord, let me abide a bondman instead of the lad. For our father, who is such an old man, said to us, when we left with Benjamin, My son Joseph I have already lost; surely he is torn in pieces by the wild beasts. And if ye take this also from me and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Then (Judah said) I said to our father that I would be surety for the lad and that I should bear the blame if I did not bring Benjamin home again. And therefore I pray thee, O my lord, let me abide a bondman, and let the lad go up with his brethren. For how shall I go up to my father if the lad be not with me?...”
“And Joseph, mamma, what did Joseph say?” asked Christie.
He had nestled closely against his mother, this poor little slender fellow of six, with his fine golden hair and his eyes of pale forget-me-not blue; and his little fingers hooked themselves nervously into Cecile’s gown, rumpling the crape.
“Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him and he caused every man to leave him. And Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud and said, I am Joseph.”
But Cecile could not continue the story, for Christie had thrown himself on her neck in a frenzy of despair and she heard him sobbing against her.
“Christie! Darling!”
She was greatly distressed; she had grown interested in her own recital and had not noticed Christie’s excitement; and now he was sobbing against her in such violent grief that she could find no word to quiet him, to comfort him, to tell him that it ended happily.
“But, Christie, don’t cry, don’t cry! It ends happily.”
“And Benjamin, what about Benjamin?”
“Benjamin returned to his father; and Jacob went down into Egypt to live with Joseph.”
The child raised his wet face from her shoulder and looked at her deliberately:
“Was it really like that? Or are you only making it up?”
“No, really, darling. Don’t, don’t cry any more....”
Christie grew calmer, but he was evidently disappointed. He was not satisfied with the end of the story; and yet it was very pretty like that, much prettier than if Joseph had been angry and put Benjamin in prison.
“What a baby, Christie, to go crying like that!” said Dolf. “Why, it’s only a story.”
Cecile did not reply that the story had really happened, because it was in the Bible. She had suddenly become very sad, in doubt of herself. She fondly dried the child’s sad eyes with her pocket-handkerchief:
“And now, children, bed! It’s late!” she said, faintly.
She put them to bed, a ceremony which lasted a long time; a ceremony with an elaborate ritual of undressing, washing, saying of prayers, tucking in and kissing.