No one but the mayor, his wife, and grandchild lived in this cosey house, and a very happy household it was. The girl had been partly brought up abroad, and had acquired many graceful foreign traits as a set-off to her English complexion and somewhat hoidenish manners. She was the apple of their eye to the old couple, who let her rule them and the house like a young empress. The mayor was nothing but a great baby in her hands, and people knew that the surest way to his heart or his purse was through that saucy little beauty, Philippa Mason. Strangers passing through the town used to marvel how it was that a Catholic had been elected mayor; but they were assailed by such a torrent of eulogies on "the best, most generous, most public-spirited, most conscientious of our citizens" that they were glad to take all for granted, and applaud the choice of the freemen of Carthwaite without further explanation.
One other inmate of the mayor's house will be found worthy of notice—old Armstrong, or Uncle Jim, as he was mostly called. Verging upon sixty, he was still tall, slight, and erect in stature; his manners had some degree of refinement, and he was wont at times to hint mysteriously at his former connection with the gentlefolk of the land. Everybody liked him and laughed at him. He was the most good-humored and the most unlucky of mortals. He spoke loftily of the fortune he lost in his youth through cards and wine; and every one knew that when Mr. Mason, twenty years before, had kindly set him up in a small business of his own, he had not waited six months before he owned himself a bankrupt. Not a stain was on his character, but everything he touched seemed doomed. Money oozed through his fingers like water, while there was no visible cause for it; and the poorer he became, the merrier he was. At last, he had taken refuge with Mr. Mason, and become a part of his establishment. No one knew or inquired about his origin; people were glad enough to let the character of his patron vouch for the respectability of the harmless, amusing, kind-hearted old oddity.
As these four sat in the study (for so Philippa would have her favorite room called), they discussed their plans for the ensuing festival week.
"Uncle Jim has been invaluable," said the girl; "he has been my head-carpenter for the stage in the school, and has made such a grotto for the crib, and, above all, he has carved two wonderful alms-dishes for the collection to-morrow morning."
"Thank God! the church is to be opened to-morrow, wife," said the mayor, seeking his wife's hand. "I may not live to see another Christmas nor hear another midnight Mass. In our young days, we little thought we should see such things—when priests would ride forty miles to a dying bed, booted and spurred, with pistols to fight the highwaymen. Why, even in town, it was as much as we could do to get to our duty at Easter every year."
"Grandpapa," said Philippa, "by next summer the spire will be finished, and we can have the banner of the cross floating there, as of old the city standard used to fly over the cathedrals."
"Child," answered Mr. Mason, "by next summer your bridal train may set the bells of the church a-ringing; and if I live to see that, I'll ask no more of Heaven."
"Nobody knows where to look for the bridegroom yet," said Philippa saucily.
"Hush!" put in the grandmother. "On the day when God gave his own Son to the world, and gave to your grandfather and me such a great blessing—years ago—no one must speak lightly of the gifts he may yet please to send or no." After a pause, Uncle Jim said hesitatingly:
"The good Lord certainly feeds the sparrows, as the Bible says, and I suppose that's why Miss Mason, she must feed the robins, just to follow the path we're told to; but it seems to me, if I'd waited for Him to feed me one day that I well remember, I'd have gone hungrier than you ever did, master, in the days of your trouble."