Slowly Margaret drew herself up to her full height, with her eyes fastened on that boyish and yet manly form. Was it—O was it——? Her mother’s hand went up to his face and drew it close to her own, holding it there, the other hand she extended to her daughter. With bated breath Margaret crossed the room.
“Is it——”
“Your brother.”
Then both of Margaret’s hands were extended and both were clasped firmly and tenderly, and,
“Osmond!”
“Margaret!”—spoken in a breath, and Margaret knew that at last her mother had her heart’s one desire; her boy, her baby is once more her own, and the sister is clasped in her brother’s embrace.
“O, this is indeed a merry Christmas, and you are the nicest Christmas gift I could have wished for. But how is it, mamma, that you have not written this to me?”
“Because I so sincerely hoped and believed that you would make it possible to spend a week with us, and I wanted to surprise you. Have I succeeded?”
“Indeed you have, my darling mamma. But is this boy always so tongue-tied, having just nothing at all to say?”
Osmond laughed,