“We have no very near relations left in this world. We who sit here are the nearest of kin to each other. Still, you know, Virginians are as clannish as highlanders.”
“Yes, indeed. I remember that much of my beloved mother. No matter how distant the relationship or how humble or even unworthy the individual, my dear mother always held sacred the claims of kindred. My poor father, who was not so clannish, used to laugh at her a little and ask:
“‘Why do you not take in all the human race at once, since all are Sons and daughters of our first parents, and brothers and sisters of ourselves?’”
“Well, he was right,” commented the old man.
“But excuse me for interrupting you, uncle. You were speaking of our kindred in this country, and we are anxious to hear of them.”
“Well, my boy, there are the Gordons, of Gordondell; they are our third cousins, and live about seven miles south of this on the Staunton road. They are a large family of three generations, living in one house; but they are all Gordons. Then there are the Bells, of the Elms; only two, a bachelor brother and maiden sister, living on their little place just beyond Wolfswalk. And the Clydes, my dears, who live in the village, and keep a general store. There is a young father and mother and half a dozen children. That is all. They are all more or less injured by the war, and are poor, and—some of them—somewhat embittered by their losses; but they are our kindred, and we must have them all here to meet you in the coming Christmas holidays.”
“Tea is on the table, ma’am,” said Polly.
And the party left the fireside and gathered around the table.
The sleigh ride had given them all fine appetites, and they enjoyed their repast.
After it was over, and the evening worship was offered up, the little family separated and retired to rest.