“It’s Christmas,” replied Nan. Her cheeks were the colour of the holly berries in the great wreaths she was arranging to place on either side of the wall behind the pulpit. “They can’t quarrel at Christmas—not with Billy Sewall preaching peace on earth, good will to men, to them.
—Jessica, please hand me that wire—and come and hold this wreath a minute, will you?”
“Nobody expects Marian to be on any side but the other one,” consolingly whispered merry-faced Jessica, Edson’s wife—lucky fellow!—as she held the wreath for Nan to affix the wire.
“What’s that about Sewall?” Oliver inquired. “I hadn’t heard of that. You don’t mean to say Sewall’s coming up for this service?”
“Of course he is. Margaret telephoned him this morning, and he said he’d never had a Christmas present equal to this one. He said it interested him a lot more than his morning service in town, and he’d be up, loaded. Isn’t that fine of Billy?” Nan beamed triumphantly at her oldest brother, over her holly wreath.
“That puts a different light on it.” And Mr. Oliver Fernald, president
of the great city bank of which Sam Burnett was cashier, got promptly down on the knees of his freshly pressed trousers, and proceeded to tack the frazzled edge of the pulpit stair-carpet with interest and skill. That stair-carpet had been tacked by a good many people before him, but doubtless it had never been stretched into place by a man whose eye-glasses sat astride of a nose of the impressive, presidential mould of this one.
“Do I understand that you mean to attempt music?” Mrs. Oliver seemed grieved at the thought. “There are several good voices in the family, of course, but you haven’t had time to practise any Christmas music together. You will have merely to sing hymns.”
“Fortunately, some of the old hymns are Christmas music, of the most exquisite sort,” began Nan, trying hard to keep her temper—a
feat which was apt to give her trouble when Marian was about. But, at the moment, as if to help her, up in the old organ-loft, at the back of the church, Margaret began to sing. Everybody looked up in delight, for Margaret’s voice was the pride of the family, and with reason. Somebody was at the organ—the little reed organ. It proved to be Carolyn—Mrs. Charles Wetmore. For a moment the notes rose harmoniously. Then came an interval—and the organ wailed. There was a shout of protest, from the top of Guy’s step-ladder: