“How foolishly you talk, Henry!” answered his sister, rather petulantly. “You know very well what I mean. Of course, we are not street beggars; but we live very differently from what we did last year at this time. Our beautiful house, our horses and carriage, and nearly all of our servants, are gone.”
“No matter for that,” returned Master Horace. “Father has paid all his debts like an honest man, and we have all we need. A small house is just as comfortable as a large one; the cars and omnibuses answer as good a purpose as our own carriage; and as to the servants, I much prefer waiting upon myself. As long as I have good Mrs. Betty to cook my dinner, it is all I want.”
“It is of no use talking to you, Horace,” answered his sister, as she rose to leave the room; “but, when you see what a bare Christmas-tree we shall have this year, you will be convinced that we are poor.”
“We had more than we knew what to do with last year,” persisted Horace, following his sister. “Suppose we hunt up about half a bushel of books and toys, and present them to Santa Claus for distribution. No doubt he will be grateful to us; for times are hard, and his purse may be poorly filled.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Mary, impatiently. “I will not stay talking with you any longer.”
But, at this moment, the pleasant voice of their mother was heard calling them from the adjoining room.
She had heard their conversation, and now replied to Horace’s suggestion,—
“Your plan is an excellent one, my son; and I will try to put it in a form that will be less displeasing to your sister.”
“Horace talks so much nonsense!” said Mary, as she took an offered seat by her mother’s side.
“A little nonsense, but a good deal of sense, my daughter,” returned her mother. “Your mind is in a disturbed and unhappy state, and therefore you are not ready to meet his pleasant way of treating our troubles.”