Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eat beef, when there was roast turkey with dressing!
Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again—never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.
After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother—and papa, too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.
This was the way we sat—papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep. Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother. I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how particular he was.
Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to remember much that happened before.
"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born," pleaded Josephine.
"Yes—about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from mamma's shoulder.
Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment. Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that direction.
He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery—it contained his Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame, which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said, "God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern in manner, which was her own way.
"But what is it about, grandmother—the story?" asked Josephine.