“No one has ever done that,” replied Polly, “but when there is moonlight they say the shadows can be seen passing over the grass, and any New-Year’s night you may hear the huntsman’s horn.”
“I should like amazingly to hear it,” replied the young man. “Have you ever heard this horn?”
“I have heard A horn,” the girl answered, with some reluctance.
“On New-Year’s night between twelve and one?” he pursued.
“Of course—but I can’t swear it was blown by a ghost. My brothers or some one may have been playing tricks. You can sit up to-night and listen for yourself if you want.”
“Nothing I should like better,” exclaimed Harold. “Will you sit up too?”
“Oh yes. We always wait to see the Old Year out and the New Year in. Come, Mr. Hayes, it’s almost luncheon-time,” she added, glancing at her watch; and they turned back toward the house, which was just visible through the leafless trees.
Harold walked at her side in silence. He had heard a ghost-story, but the words he had hoped to speak that day were still unuttered.
Loud were the pleadings, when the little ones’ bedtime came, that they might be allowed to sit up to see the Old Year die; but Mrs. Connolly was inexorable. The very young ones were sent off to bed at their usual hour.
Cards and music passed the time pleasantly till the clock was almost on the stroke of twelve. Then wine was brought in, and healths were drunk, and warm, cheerful wishes were uttered, invoking all the blessings that the New Year might have in store. Hands were clasped and kisses were exchanged. Harold would willingly have been included in this last ceremony, but that might not be. However, he could and did press Polly’s hand very warmly, and the earnestness of the wishes he breathed in her ear called a bright colour to her cheek. Then came good-night, and the young American’s heart grew strangely soft when he found himself included in Mrs. Connolly’s motherly blessing. He thought he had never seen a happier, a more united family.