Human nature is much the same on Christmas as on any other day in the week, and every creature in Berrie Down—Heather herself not excepted—felt Harry Marsden to be a burden and a tax.
Never before—never, Heather thought, had Berrie Down Lane looked so lovely as it did on that morning when they all paced it side by side. She had not been out for weeks previously, and the very branches of the trees seemed to bend and greet her as she passed.
There were few leaves, and there were no wild flowers, yet the banks and hedgerows looked warm and pleasant, the ivy was trailing over the sward and twining fresh and green round the roots of the elms and beeches; the spruce laurel put forth its glossy foliage between the bare boughs of the thorn, and its bluish-black berries formed a contrast to those of the holly, red and glowing in the sunshine.
Everything looked fair and lovely to Heather on that Christmas morning. Arthur had been so kind to her for weeks past, had never grumbled about Lally’s illness, nor complained concerning the child having occupied too much of her time and thoughts.
Alick was back amongst them—not much changed by his sojourn in town—good, and considerate, and helpful as ever. He talked hopefully of a vacant situation in Messrs. Elser’s office, which he thought Cuthbert might fill; and Heather’s secret desire for many a day previously had been that when Cuthbert went forth into the world it might be under Alick’s auspices.
She did not feel quite so certain of the one boy as of the other; she did not think that as Cuthbert grew up she could manage him without Alick’s aid. He was more uncertain in his temper, less to be depended on in any way, weaker for good, stronger for evil than his brother. Altogether, Heather desired that Alick should have the supervision of him; and, behold, there was already a chance of the desire being gratified.
Then Lally was better; though not yet strong, she was certainly better, and the girls were well; even Bessie made no complaint, though Heather thought she looked a trifle pale in her pretty bonnet, made of violet velvet, which was about the most becoming colour and material possible to the complexion of that young belle, Miss Ormson.
“What a shame, dear, that Gilbert is not with us,” Heather had laughingly said the same morning, standing under the misletoe. “Let me kiss you for him.”
“Kiss me for yourself, Heather,” Bessie answered, colouring up to her very temples, “but not for him.”
“And why not for him?” asked Heather.