Mr. Brownlow gave himself a little shake and sat down, as was his wont upon critical occasions. As his absent gaze wandered about the room, so prettily decked for the guests who didn’t come, it fell upon a little worn, gilt-edged volume on the table. At that sight, a new thought occurred to him. “Clarissy,” he said softly, going over to his wife and putting his arm around her, “Clarissy, seein’s the well-off folks haven’t accepted, don’t you think we’d better invite some of the others in?” And he pointed significantly toward the window.
Mrs. Brownlow, despatching another tear after the first, nodded. She was not quite equal to words yet. Being a woman, the neglect of her little party cut her even more deeply than it did her husband.
Mr. Brownlow stepped to the front door. Nay more, he walked down the short flight of steps, took one little girl by the hand, and said in his pleasant, fatherly way,
“Wouldn’t you like to go in and look at the tree? Come, Puss” (to the waif at his side), “we’ll start first.”
With these words he led the way back through the open door, and into the warm, lighted room. The children hung back a little, but seeing that no harm came to the first guest, soon flocked in, each trying to keep behind all the rest, but at the same time shouldering the babies up into view as before.
In the delightful confusion that followed, the good hosts forgot all about the miscarriage of their plans. They completely outdid themselves, in efforts to please their hastily acquired company. Bob spoke a piece, the girls sang duets. Mrs. Brownlow had held every individual baby in her motherly arms before half an hour was over. And as for Mr. Brownlow, it was simply marvelous to see him go among those children, giving them the presents, and initiating their owners into the mysterious impelling forces of monkeys with yellow legs and gymnastic tendencies; filling the boys’ pockets with pop-corn, blowing horns and tin whistles; now assaulting the tree (it had been lighted throughout, and—bless it—how firm it stood now!) for fresh novelties, now diving into the kitchen and returning in an unspeakably cohesive state of breathlessness and molasses candy,—all the while laughing, talking, patting heads, joking, until the kindly Spirit of Christmas Present would have wept and smiled at once, for the pleasure of the sight.
“And now, my young friends,” said Mr. Brownlow, raising his voice, “we’ll have a little ice-cream in the back room. Ladies first, gentlemen afterward!” So saying, he gallantly stood on one side, with a sweep of his hand, to allow Mrs. Brownlow to precede him. But just as the words left his mouth there came a sharp ring at the door-bell.
“It’s a carriage!” gasped Mrs. Brownlow, flying to the front window, and backing precipitately. “Susie, go to that door an’ see who ’tis. Land sakes, what a mess this parlor’s in!” And she gazed with a true housekeeper’s dismay at the littered carpet and dripping candles.