Then, sinking to her knees, she put her hands together and raised her pure face—angelic in the father’s sight—as the moonbeams revealed its expression of meek devotion.
“Our Father who art in Heaven! please make us good and happy, and let us have a merry Christmas. If there is any Santa Claus, please let him come to our house to-night, for he has never been here in all our lives, and this makes us very sorry. Bless dear Papa and Mamma, and don’t let us think hard of them, or say naughty things about them, only because they don’t know how little children feel. Amen!”
Ally gave a grunt that might mean acquiescence, or doubt, when his sister arose and leaned over to kiss him; but Mr. Dryden could play the eavesdropper no longer.
Feeling that he must inevitably discover himself if he remained another minute in his present position, he hurried down-stairs and into the parlor, where he behaved more like a crazy man than the sober, self-possessed head of a staid and decent household. Kicking off his slippers, he thrust his feet violently into
his boots, stamping, with unnecessary force, to get these fairly on; blew his nose repeatedly and loudly, afterwards passing his handkerchief over his eyes, as though the sudden catarrh from which he appeared to be suffering had affected them also. Going into the hall, he snatched his greatcoat from the rack and put it on—still in desperate haste, pulled his hat over his brows, and rushed into the street.
He found himself plunged directly into a rapid, buzzing crowd. Every step was quick and light; every face wore a smile, and the air was full of the pleasant confusion of happy voices. Bless the children! how they ran under his feet, and trod upon his toes, and kicked against his heels, and jostled him on the right and on the left! And not one of them was empty-handed. Parcels of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions, filled small fingers; were hugged by small arms; laid upon small shoulders and slung upon small backs. Brown paper bundles; bundles tied in frailer white paper, which, bursting, showed the wheel of a toy-wagon, or the head of a toy-horse, or the arm of a doll; funnel-shaped bundles, fresh from the hands of the confectioner; bundles, wrapped hastily in newspaper by an economical shopkeeper, or one whose stock of wrapping material had proved inadequate to the rush of custom; boxes, square, oblong, and many-sided; mimic guns and drums, with gayly-painted sides, upon whose heads the delighted owners could not refrain from beating stirring Christmas marches, as they carried them home; here and there a huge hobby-horse, with dilated eye and streaming mane, borne aloft by the stalwart porter of some toy warehouse; these were but a few features in the pageant that streamed past Mr. Dryden—a varied and joyous torrent of life. He caught the infection of this atmosphere of gladness before he had gone a dozen yards. He had come forth with the intention of purchasing something with which to make his children happy; to answer Nettie’s prayer so far as lay in his power. Awakened conscience and remorseful affection for those he felt he had wronged, had driven him on to the duty of making restitution. He soon began to understand that there might be enjoyment, active and new, in the task.
“How I wish I had brought them with me!” he said to himself, as he felt his features relax into a smile at sight of the general hilarity. “It was hard to send them to bed so early on Christmas eve. But, what would their mother have said if I had asked her permission to take them out after dark?”
He stayed his rapid progress, as another query presented itself. What would this very prudent and sedate help-meet say and think of another bold innovation upon established rules, to wit, this expedition and its probable results? How should he meet the stare of mingled astonishment and rebuke that would rest upon his freight of “useless” playthings, upon his return home? She disapproved of toys, except when great moderation was displayed in their bestowal. Nettie had but one doll in the world, and, careful as she was of this treasure, her loving arts could not conceal the ravages of time; said manikin having been Aunt Mary’s gift to her niece, upon her third birthday. Ally had never owned a hobby-horse. His mother had a dread of “rough plays.” Our hero was quite aware that on this occasion he was not inclined to moderation. He would cheerfully have bought the entire contents of any one of the illuminated windows whose splendors drew around them a swarm of admiring juveniles, as a hive of honey would tempt hungry bees. The difficulty was to know what would best please the unsuspecting twain at home.