Christmas at Cedar Hill

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"Now, that is mother, all over!" said Squire Hardy. "Always thinks of everything. But come, I shall take no denial! The longer we wait the worse the road will be. Come, conductor, nobody will run away with your train to-night, I will engage!"

The conductor, however, declared that he must remain on his post. There might be important telegrams to attend to, and he expected the express train was in the same scrape, not far off. He had been a soldier, he said, and was used to roughing it in worse places than this. But he strongly advised the rest of the party to accept Hardy's invitation, saying he would send them word at the first prospect of their being able to continue their journey.

So all was settled, and our young friends, well wrapped in buffalo skins, were packed in among the elders, wherever there was a chink, as Herbert said. They had but a rough ride, for the road was up and down hill at the best, and was now heavily drifted. Two or three times, they seemed on the point of turning over, and for the last part of the way, the gentlemen got out and walked.

"Are you cold, Agatha?" asked Herbert.

"Not very, only my feet," said Agatha.

"O dear!" said Frank, with a sigh that almost a groan. "If I only get you into a place of safety once more, I don't care what happens to me!"

"We shall soon be in a place of safety, and of comfort, too," said Mrs. Hardy, kindly. "See, there is our house!"

In a few minutes more, the lane turned into a gate, and they drew up at the door of a large Louse. The door was thrown open, letting out a flood of ruddy light, and in a few minutes, the whole party had shaken off the loose snow and were ushered into a spacious parlor, attended by their host and hostess, several boys and girls, and two or three dogs, all, as it seemed, anxious to welcome the unexpected guests.

It was not long before all were warmed, and washed, and brushed, and seated at a long supper-table, loaded with all sorts of good things.

The two little girls of the family, May and Annie, had taken possession of Agatha as their rightful property, and she had already learned, while brushing her hair and arranging her dress in their room, that Annie was an orphan, and always lived with her grandparents, but May had only come on a visit; that May was nine and Annie ten, and that they loved each other dearly. She had seen the cushion May had worked for grandmamma, and the scarf Annie had knitted for grandpapa, and had faithfully promised not to tell—the presents being a great secret, not to be revealed till the next morning, when they were to be placed on the breakfast table. Agatha was fond of children and always got on nicely with them.