“It is the season for family re-unions,” answered my friend with just the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, not noticing; “she has never missed her Christmas with us, have you, Bess?”
“No, mother,” replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over her work.
So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and jewels, her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for a little space with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one anchor holding her to womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, perhaps, in the end strong enough to save her from the drifting waters. All which arguments in favour of Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, purely sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether sentiment has not its legitimate place in the economy of life.
ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS
Have you ever noticed the going out of a woman?
When a man goes out, he says—“I’m going out, shan’t be long.”
“Oh, George,” cries his wife from the other end of the house, “don’t go for a moment. I want you to—” She hears a falling of hats, followed by the slamming of the front door.
“Oh, George, you’re not gone!” she wails. It is but the voice of despair. As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the hall, breathless.
“He might have waited a minute,” she mutters to herself, as she picks up the hats, “there were so many things I wanted him to do.”