Before Austin’s place at table stood a beautiful enlarging camera, which would surely be a priceless help in the practice of the “dark art”; he found, too, a fine array of photographic plates and papers, and the latest thing in “print-washers”, as a gift from his sister. All these matters being of moment in regard to his latest hobby, the boy was certain that no present could have pleased him better. Frances found herself the possessor of a beautiful writing-case, fitted with everything necessary and unnecessary. Austin had amused himself and Max vastly by a special journey to Exham in order to select his present, which now astonished his sister’s eyes. It was a plain wicker work-basket of enormous proportions; and half an hour of coaxing had induced Muriel Carlyon to line the monster with crimson silk, on which were stitched at regular intervals great white letters:
“FRANCES THE ALTRUIST”.
The peals of laughter with which Frances received this offering, and in which Austin joined, almost upset Mrs. Morland’s equanimity; but just as she began to think of frowning, the lively couple calmed down and pounced on the row of new story-books, which were to be a joint possession.
Frances remembered for long afterwards the special peacefulness and happiness which seemed to mark the morning of that Christmas-day. Never had she more thoroughly enjoyed the service in the old Woodend church, with the rector’s benign face seeming to greet each well-known member of his congregation, and Edward Carlyon reading the familiar prayers, and Muriel accompanying on the organ her well-trained choir of boys and men. The choristers were recruited chiefly from Mr. Carlyon’s pupils, so that Austin was the soloist that morning, and sang with bird-like clearness a vocal hymn of joy and praise.
The children dined late with their mother on great occasions, and now, after a luncheon of sandwiches, mince-pies, jelly, and cream, they hurried out for a run which might assist digestion. Austin carried his camera, for he pined to get a snow-effect, and thought that the view of Woodend village from the elevation on which his mother’s house stood would answer admirably for a subject.
“It wasn’t worth while to bring my camera-case,” announced the boy, as he darted round from a side-door his arms burdened with impedimenta. “You won’t mind carrying something, will you, Frances, as it’s such a little way we’re going?”
“I always carry something,” replied his sister calmly; “and I would have come to help you collect your baggage if Mater hadn’t called me back to write a letter for her. It was only a little letter, but it took time. Everything takes time. I wish the days were twice as long.”
“Well, as they’re at their shortest now, and we’ve only two hours of light before us, we’d better scurry. There, I’ve dropped my dark cloth, and I can’t stoop to pick it up.”
“Mercy! Are your dark slides in it?”
“No, better luck.”