“Nay, nay,” said Halbert, not long ago, when some indifferent friend of the family suggested this, “Christian will never grow old. When years come upon her, she will glide away like a streamlet into a river, but she will not fade. Christian’s spirit will always be young.”
And so it is; her soft clear voice stills all that little childish hubbub in a moment. The very baby stays its scream of joy, as if it too would listen to Aunt Christian, and little Mary on her shoulder, and strong Halbert at her right hand, and every separate individual of their respective hosts of brothers and sisters would dare in single-handed valour any full-grown Goliath that would presume to interrupt the expression of Aunt Christian’s pleasure, pleasant as it always is. It is a great day this, with these two united families. A day of childish jubilee to the younger members, and of joyful commemoration to the older, for Halbert looks back with glistening eyes, and rejoices in the union of ten years ago, a beginning of happy, laborious years to him; and Mary remembers her early trial, and thanks God most earnestly for deliverance, and participates with her husband in the happier recollections of their marriage day; and the other Mary, with generous affection, sympathises with each and all; and Christian? Christian’s heart, open at all times to generous impulses, seems to have its sluices of overpouring and constant love thrown wide open for the free passage of its swelling tides, each new year’s night, and if you heard her fervent thanksgiving when she kneels before God alone, you would think that flood of blessings had been all poured out upon her, not that its fulness had flowed upon her friends, but that she herself was the individual recipient of every separate gift. For Christian identifies herself with those dear ones so entirely, that she looks upon their happiness as a peculiar blessing bestowed upon herself. Christian has, however, now seated herself in the empty chair waiting for her—jealously kept for her, indeed—at the brightest corner of the cheerful fireside, and taking a little namesake of her own, a grave, serious, thoughtful child, who has begun to lisp wisdom already with her infant tongue, upon her knee, she joins in the conversation which her entrance, and still more her equitable distribution of the basket of good things had interrupted.
“Father,” questioned Halbert Melville, second bearer of the name, “do you keep new year’s day because it is new year’s day?”
“Why do you ask, Halbert?” said his mother, smiling, as she drew the boy towards her.
“Because, Mamma, nobody else cares about it here; and I’ve heard Aunt Christian say how foolish it was for people to keep their birthdays, as if they were glad that time was going away from them, people that don’t use their time well either,” moralised Halbert, looking earnestly in his mother’s face, “and isn’t new year’s day just the same as a birthday and—” the boy hesitated and seemed unwilling or unable to say more.
“And what, Halbert,” said Christian, as the boy paused and looked down, “and what—what was it you were going to say?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Christian,” hesitated Halbert, “I don’t know whether it’s right or not, but shouldn’t we be rather sorry when the new year comes, than glad that the old year has ended?”
“And why sorry, Halbert?” said his father, who had hitherto been listening in silence, “why do you think we should be sorry?”
“Because, father,” said Halbert, quickly, raising his eyes, “because you said in your sermon last Sabbath, that when once a year was gone, if we had not spent it well, it was entirely lost for ever, for we could never bring a minute back again.”
“And therefore you think we should be sorry, do you, Halbert?” rejoined his father.