"Ye mustn't go in there," she warned me.
Delightful suspicions came out of the warning and their smiles.
"We're goin' to be more comf'table—ayes," said Aunt Deel as I resumed my chair. "Yer uncle thought we better go west, but I couldn't bear to go off so fur an' leave mother an' father an' sister Susan an' all the folks we loved layin' here in the ground alone—I want to lay down with 'em by an' by an' wait for the sound o' the trumpet—ayes!—mebbe it'll be for thousands o' years—ayes!"
"You don't suppose their souls are a-sleepin' there—do ye?" my uncle asked.
"That's what the Bible says," Aunt Deel answered.
"Wal the Bible—?" Uncle Peabody stopped. What was in his mind we may only imagine.
To our astonishment the clock struck twelve.
"Hurrah! It's merry Christmas!" said Uncle Peabody as he jumped to his feet and began to sing of the little Lord Jesus.
We joined him while he stood beating time with his right hand after the fashion of a singing master.
"Off with yer boots, friend!" he exclaimed when the stanza was finished. "We don't have to set up and watch like the shepherds."