The days before Christmas were always feverishly occupied at Castle Freyne. Chunks of cow had to be distributed among the work-people, with tea and sugar and flour. Everybody the Freynes ever did anything for had to receive a goose or a turkey or game.
Mrs. Freyne agreed to the necessity for economy with a resolution which melted as wax at the faintest idea of putting it into practice.
"Everything died just as usual," she said placidly to her husband; "and as they were dead, it would be waste not to give them away, especially in war-time, Dearest, would it not?"
Mounds of parcels had been secreted by Gheena and sent to every acquaintance she had in France—cakes, sweets, plum-puddings and mince-pies, tobacco and socks. No man from the village missed having a parcel.
The day's papers merely contained the usual news of the winter deadlock, so there was no excitement to interfere with the long morning in the kitchen and the long stream of presents which went out.
Mrs. Freyne remarked on the unusual scarcity of pheasants, to be informed by stout Anne that the Masther was sellin' them same to Hourigans there in the city.
George Freyne arrived at too frequent intervals to groan before the array of food, until the sound of his steps caused a laden rush to the rabbit-warren of sculleries and larders off the huge kitchen and a general concealment of anything which could be hidden speedily.
"We must slip away most of the parcels when Dearest George has gone to Cahercalla, Gheena, mustn't we? The Master is so dreadfully anxious that we should not be extravagant during the war, you see, Anne. Gentlemen have it constantly before them."
"There is a fire to keep going in the red room from this till Friday," announced Maria, coming down for coal. "The Masther says it is roarin' damp, and there is a telegram to go for Eysters, Phil—when ye are exercisin' the horses."
Phil remarked bleakly that it would be aisier to take ramble on the bicycle than be rubbin' muck off his horses for two hours afther the roads, and departed.