Then they all went to church, as a united family ought to do on Christmas-day, and came home to a fine old English early dinner at three o’clock,-a sirloin of beef a foot and a half broad, a turkey as big as an ostrich, a plum-pudding bigger than the turkey, and two or three dozen mince-pies. “That’s a very large bit of beef,” said Mr. Jones, who had not lived much in England latterly.
“It won’t look so large,” said the old gentleman, “when all our friends down-stairs have had their say to it.” “A plum pudding on Christmas-day can’t be too big,” he said again, “if the cook will but take time enough over it. I never knew a bit to go to waste yet.”
By this time there had been some explanation as to past events between the two sisters. Mrs. Brown had, indeed, told Jane all about it,—how ill her husband had been, how she had been forced to go down and look for the mustard, and then what she had done with the mustard.
“I don’t think they are a bit alike, you know, Mary, if you mean that,” said Jane.
“Well, no; perhaps not quite alike. I only saw his beard, you know. No doubt it was stupid, but I did it.”
“Why didn’t you take it off again?” asked the sister.
“O Jane, if you’d only think of it! Could you?” Then, of course, all that occurred was explained,—how they had been stopped on their journey, how Brown had made the best apology in his power, and how Jones had travelled with them and had never spoken a word. The gentleman had only taken his new name a week since, but of course had had his new card printed immediately, “I’m sure I should have thought of it, if they hadn’t made a mistake of the first name. Charles said it was like Barnaby Rudge.”
“Not at all like Barnaby Rudge,” said Jane: “Charles Burnaby Jones is a very good name.”
“Very good indeed—and I’m sure that after a little bit he won’t be at all the worse for the accident.”