Home, in its dull uniformity and stillness, was a contrast after the stir and freshness and prettiness of life in the Dallases's house. It struck Esther rather painfully. The room where she and her father took their supper was pleasant and homely indeed; a bright fire burned on the hearth, or in the grate, rather, and a bright lamp shone on the table; Barker had brought in the tea urn, and the business of preparing tea for her father was one that Esther always liked. But, nevertheless, the place approached too nearly a picture of still life. The urn hissed and bubbled, a comfortable sound; and now and then there was a falling coal or a jet of gas flame in the fire; but I think these things perhaps made the stillness more intense and more noticeable. The colonel sat on his sofa, breaking dry toast into his tea and thoughtfully swallowing it; he said nothing, unless to demand another cup; and Esther, though she had a healthy young appetite, could not quite stay the mental longing with the material supply. Besides, she was pondering something curiously.
'Papa,' she said at last, 'are you busy? May I ask you something?'
'Yes, my dear. What is it?'
'Papa, what is Christmas?'
The colonel looked up.
'What is Christmas?' he repeated. 'It is nothing, Esther; nothing at all. A name—nothing more.'
'Then, why do people think so much of Christmas?'
'They do not. Sensible people do not think anything of it. Christmas is nothing to me.'
'But, papa, why then does anybody make much of it? Mrs. Dallas has her house all dressed up with greens.'
'You had better keep away from Mrs. Dallas's.'