She hummed a carol to herself, as she recalled the night before, Christmas Eve, which she had spent with the Merryweathers. They had gone together to the carol service at the little church, which they had all helped to make beautiful with spruce and fir and hemlock. After that they sang hymns and carols at home, in full chorus, with such hearty good-will and earnest feeling as it was a joy to remember; and then came the hanging of the stockings. An only child for so long, Hildegarde had never seen before the bewildering, enchanting bustle of Christmas Eve in a large family; the hanging of the stockings, six in a row, the whole length of the great fireplace in the nursery; the delightful mysteries, the parcels which no one saw, the whisperings which no one heard save those to whom they were addressed, the tiptoeing hither and thither, the rustle of tissue-paper,—ah! it was all very pleasant! The kind friends had begged her to stay with them, and share the morning fun, which they declared to be the best of all; but that Hildegarde could not do.
"Mamma and I have only each other!" she said. "You would not really have me leave her alone, dear people!" and the Merryweathers were obliged to confess that they would not, upon any account. So they had parted, with many plans and promises for the next day,—the great, the blessed day of the year. And now it was here! and oh, was it—could it really be snowing?
Hildegarde listened, and heard a sound as of fairy hands beating softly on the window-panes. It was growing lighter every moment, but the light came through a soft, white dimness. Hildegarde ran to the window; the ground was white, the dark branches of the evergreens were bending under a weight of snow, and it was snowing still, not furiously, but in a quiet, determined way, that meant business. Oh, joy! At last, the longed-for winter had come! This ungrateful girl had already received many favours from the Frost King; she had skated, she had had icicles to eat, she had broken through the ice, and got a good wetting,—still she was not content, but longed for snow; and now she had her heart's desire.
"And we'll all go tobogganing,
Bog, bog, bogganing!"
she sang, as she dressed herself, stopping now and then to dance about the room a little when she felt cold; for the morning was evidently sharp, and the cold had got into the house in good earnest.
Running down-stairs, she found the breakfast-room warm and bright with a crackling, leaping fire on the hearth. Mrs. Grahame was already down, and her long, silent embrace was the first and best Christmas greeting. Then it was "Merry Christmas!" and again "Merry Christmas!" as Auntie came into the room, bringing the fragrant coffee, and the tray piled high with good things.
"Oh, and the mail has come!" cried Hildegarde, fairly dancing round the table to her place. "See, my love! Letters from everybody, heaps upon heaps! Oh, what joy!"
There were greetings from all the distant friends, it seemed; from all the good people at Bywood, from Rose and Doctor Flower, from the dear old couple at Hartley's Glen.
"Oh, how good every one is!" cried Hildegarde. "And here is a parcel—Mammina, what can this be? It looks like Aunt Emily's hand."