Yes, one other thing. There was a great Christmas gathering at the Phillips mansion that year. The Raeburns and Mortons were there, with a host of Mary's uncles, aunts, and cousins, and actually two pairs of grandparents. Only think how rich she was!
On Christmas-eve there was dancing and charade-acting, there were games and tableaux in the great hall; and last and best of all, there was story-telling around the fragrant wood-fire in the library.
Of all the stories told that night, there was none to compare, everybody said, with the one related by pretty Bessie Raeburn, of a certain Christmas adventure of hers, and of what came of it.
A CHARADE
I love my first on a summer eve,
Or a breezy autumn morning;
My soul bounds with it, and my heart
Laughs out, all trouble scorning.
I love it by the wild sea-beach,
When fades the sunset splendor,
And the new moon, like a fairy boat,
Sails through the sky-deeps tender.
My second brings up visions sad
Of life's most fearful duty,—
Of green mounds hiding from our sight
Dear forms of youth and beauty.
My third, if speaking slowly, clouds
The brightest day with sadness;
If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes
The gloomiest morn to gladness.
It calls, and through the churchyard gate
A funeral is creeping;
It calls, and down the old church aisle
A bridal train is sweeping!
My whole grew in a garden old,
Round which my heart still lingers;
Its azure petals formed a cup
Fit for a fairy's fingers.