"That beloved trumpet," said Joyce, laughing. "I let him take it out into the garden after dinner, and give one great blow; but he was so loyal, he came and hid it again, out of sight, saying, 'If father heard that, it was only just once.'"
"Dear old boy!" Gilbert said. "I shall not forget his self-denial learned from his mother."
"Nay," she said, playfully, "I do not quite wish to blow trumpets."
"Not your own, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder.
They did not forget baby Joy. Her cradle was in their own room; and Joyce called her husband to look at her, and wish her the "happy new year," as he had wished the others.
"A happy new year to my little Joy," he said.
The baby moved a little, and, throwing one fat arm behind her head, a flickering smile played over her face, a light rather than a smile, such as comes over the faces of the little ones sometimes when in sleep, their angels draw near.
It was one of those supreme moments in life, which do not find expression in many words:—
"A happy new year to you, my little Joy," Joyce repeated, and then there was silence, while—
"Two faces o'er the cradle bent,
Two hands above the head were locked,
These pressed each other while they rocked,
Those watched a life that Love had sent.
O solemn hour!
O hidden power!"