Then whip them all soundly and send them to bed.”
Papa’s jokes were always well received and the little folk forgot the strangeness, as they were unpacked by him and Hugh, to be handed over to Celia and Nan’s tender care. Little Jack seemed to grow an inch taller at hearing Celia cry out—
“Now then, Mister John, this child be’s your werry own self. Them feeters is just your own. Bless the creeter. He’s my mans.”
Papa looked at Jack’s saucy little pug nose, and felt his own Grecian feature, evidently very much struck with the great resemblance, then passed on, with Bear in his arms, to the library door, where good Aunt Emma was hugging and being hugged by the other three.
Dear old Auntie, with your plain, kindly face, and silver, corkscrew curls! The tears of joy which sprang to your eyes when you greeted your favorite nephew’s treasures, well up and course rapidly down your thin cheeks as your heart goes out in sympathy for the tired little boy with the melancholy, wistful look.
Old Celia now appears, with Jack’s fat legs dangling over her arms, whilst the round face is very rosy, partly from suffocation in her tight clasp, and partly from mortification at being thus publicly “babied.”
No sooner were the greetings finished, than Celia cried out—
“Come, children to the nursery, we’ll just give a shake to them gowns and trowsers, and wipe off a bit of the dust from your little faces, and then have a bit of somethin’. Bread and water! Did ye hear tell? I guess it’s likely in this yer house, and old Celia in it! Allers Mister John must have his little joke.”
The nursery looked so cool and pleasant, and the little table with its tempting feast so inviting, that even Bear submitted without resistance to a cool face-sponging and hair-dressing.