“And if the mine is worked, I want our dear friend, Ninian Sharp, to come here and act as its manager, on behalf of the Sobrante side. He”––she raised her hand gently, as he started to interrupt––“he must be paid a much larger salary than he could earn upon the staff of the Lancet, and would have, I hope, sufficient leisure time to use his pen in other literary work, such as he tells me he has never had the chance to do.”
For the first time in his life, maybe, the alert reporter was taken off guard, and hadn’t a word to say, except the very ordinary one of “Thank you”; but he said it, bending over the lady’s hand, and with such an expression of delight upon his thin, intellectual face, that no greater eloquence was needed.
“And now,” said Aunt Sally, “it’s time to begin that there decorating which Gabriell’ thinks is a part of Christmas. Pasqually’s been real good. He’s been up to the dreen, where you planted them calla lilies, Jessie, and he’s fetched a good many bushels. Seven hundred, I guess he said. And he’s cut poinsetty enough to turn us blind with its redness; and my boy, John, hitched up and went along under the flume and druv his pushcart back full of the biggest maidenhair ferns and sweet brakes I ever see. So now, youngsters, set to and trim. Then we’ll hang up our stockings, every one; and I’ll give you the nicest Christmas dinner can be cooked, if I have to cuff Wun Lungy into basting them turkeys as they ought to be basted. Come, Neddy; come, little Echo; I saw Santy Claus’ wife––that’s me, shove a pan full of gingerbread men into the wall oven, and if they’re done, I’ll give each of you a soldier of dough to drive you to bed. Stockings first? Of course, of course. Why, what would Christmas be without its stockings? Here’s a brand-new pair auntie’s knit for you, one a piece; and if you don’t find ’em stuffed with rods in the morning, it won’t be because you don’t deserve it, you precious, precious, naughty little lambs!”
Off went the good creature, a boy on either arm, her patchwork streaming behind her, her spectacles on the top of her head, and her ruddy countenance as beaming as if she were, indeed, that mythical person––Santa Claus’ wife.
Oh! what a Christmas followed! With everybody from far and near who had any claim upon Sobrante hastening thither to share its open hospitalities; Wolfgang and Elsa, with their “little” six-foot son; the genial McLeods, Dr. Kimball and his sweet-faced invalid sister, Louise, for whose benefit he had left their fine Boston home to live in this lonely, lovely southland. These, and many more, not only came, but did such justice to Mrs. Benton’s and Wan Lung’s cookery that, as she said, next morning:
“Land suz! There ain’t scraps enough left to make a decent soup, even! But never mind, we had a royal time, every single soul of us. Christmas is over, and I’m glad it’s so well over. Now, we can settle down and rest a spell.”
Indeed, there was rest for the household itself, but for Ninian Sharp and his coadjutors. The mining scheme was rapidly put into practical operation; Mr. Hale lingering all that winter to further its interests, and to enjoy what he had coveted early in his acquaintance with it, a few months of ranch life at ideal Sobrante.
Then came the glorious springtime, when the mesa was alive with flowers; the canyon was fragrant with perfume, and the whole countryside became an earthly paradise. The springtime, when the Easterner could no longer delay his homeward trip, nor Mrs. Trent the revelation of what her New York letters had contained, though Jessica had almost forgotten them.