He sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. He did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. When, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,—there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them.
"To-morrow is Christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully.
"All the better. If Christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. Come round to dinner,—three o'clock sharp,—and bring all the boxes with you. That will give you time to pack up, and Mrs. Osgood time to get your rooms ready."
"Boxes and boys,—won't they be too much for you, father?"
"When they are I'll tell you,"—with a last touch of the old gruffness.
Then he went out on the street, and began looking for Christmas gifts. It was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. It was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. So he perambulated the streets like a bewildered Santa Claus,—and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,—with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections.
He called Mrs. Osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,—
"Mrs. Osgood, I hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. My daughter, Mrs. Church, is coming home with her husband and children, and I want the best Christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three."
Mrs. Osgood had always loved Miss Amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. So her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,—a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards.
Amy, and Amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,—what a jubilant party they were! And among them all Job Golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,—a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. No one else saw her, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,—the Christmas anthem,—