"Over thee bright dews be shaken;
On thine eyelids violets blow;
At thy hand white stars awaken;
Past thee sun and darkness go!
"In the world where thou art vanished,
All dear things are ever young.
I as thou will soon be vanished,
I like thee from nought am sprung.
"Slumber, slumber! Why awaken?
No one now believes in thee.
I shall sleep while worlds are shaken—
No one will believe in me."
It was the poorest, most faltering, yet most faithful voice—the mere note of a linnet long before the singing season has begun. As it died out, she descended from her premature perch and went with her repudiated book to the shelves where it must be put—not to be taken down again. In the shadow of the library and with the uncertainty of her glasses, she fumbled as she sought the place, and the volumes on each side collapsed together. Whereupon a large key slid from the top and fell to the floor. With a low cry of delight—but of regret also—she seized it and held it up:—
"Oh, Harold, the key! I have found it!"
As the others hurried to her, she said to Elsie, as though boys were not fine enough to understand anything so fine:—
"It was like mamma to hide the key there! She gave it to the old Christmas stories to keep and guard!"
Soon after this the children were not seen in the room. Some one came for them, and they were made ready for supper. After supper they were kept well guarded in another part of the house; and at an earlier hour than usual the little flock were herded up-stairs and at the top divided along masculine and feminine by-paths toward drowsy folds.
No lights were brought into the room where they had been playing. The red embers of the anthracite sank lower under their ashes: all was darkness and silence for the mysteries of Christmas Eve.