On Christmas Day in the Morning | Page 7

thanksgiving arose, as the master of the house, in a voice not quite
steady, offered it to One Unseen:
Thou who camest to us on that first Christmas Day, we bless Thee for
this good and perfect gift Thou sendest us to-day, that Thou forgettest
us not in these later years, but givest us the greatest joy of our lives in
these our loyal children.
Nan's hand clutched Guy's under the table. "Doesn't that make it worth
it?" his grasp said to her, and hers replied with a frantic pressure,
"Indeed it does, but we don't deserve it."
... It was late in the afternoon, a tremendous Christmas dinner well over,
and the group scattered, when Guy and his mother sat alone by the fire.
The "boys" had gone out to the great stock barn with their father to talk
over with him every detail of the prosperous business he, with the help
of an invaluable assistant, was yet able to manage. Carolyn and Nan
had ostensibly gone with them, but in reality the former was calling
upon an old friend of her childhood, and the latter had begged a horse
and sleigh and driven merrily away alone upon an errand she would tell
no one but her mother.
[Illustration: "'MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAMMY AND DADDY!'"]
Mrs. Fernald sat in her low chair at the side of the hearth, her son upon
a cushion at her feet, his head resting against her knee. Her slender
fingers were gently threading the thick locks of his hair, as she listened
while he talked to her of everything in his life, and, at last, of the one
thing he cared most about.

"Sometimes I get desperate and think I may as well give her up for
good and all," he was saying. "She's so--so--elusive--I don't know any
other word for it. I never can tell how I stand with her. She's going
South next week. I've asked her to answer me before she goes.
Somehow I've clung to the hope that I'd get my answer to-day. You'll
laugh, but I left word with my office-boy to wire me if a note or
anything from her came. It's four o'clock, and I haven't heard. She--you
see, I can't help thinking it's because she's going to--turn me
down--and--hates to do it--Christmas Day!"
He turned suddenly and buried his face in his mother's lap; his
shoulders heaved a little in spite of himself. His mother's hand caressed
his head more tenderly than ever, but, if he could have seen, her eyes
were very bright.
They were silent for a long time. Then suddenly a jingle of sleigh bells
approached through the falling winter twilight, drew near, and stopped
at the door. Guy's mother laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Son," she
said, "there's some one stopping now. Perhaps it's the boy with a
message from the station."
He was on his feet in an instant. Her eyes followed him as he rushed
away through the hall. Then she rose and quietly closed the
sitting-room door behind him.
As Guy flung open the front door, a tall and slender figure in gray furs
and a wide gray hat was coming up the walk. Eyes whose glance had
long been his dearest torture met Guy Fernald's and fell. Lips like
which there were no others in the world smiled tremulously in response
to his eager exclamation. And over the piquant young face rose an
exquisite colour which was not altogether born of the wintry air. The
girl who for two years had been only "elusive" had taken the significant
step of coming to North Estabrook in response to an eloquent telephone
message sent that morning by Nan.
Holding both her hands fast, Guy led her up into the house--and found
himself alone with her in the shadowy hall. With one gay shout Nan
had driven away toward the barn. The inner doors were all closed.

Blessing the wondrous sagacity of his womankind, Guy took advantage
of his moment.
"Nan brought you--I see that. I know you're very fond of her, but--you
didn't come wholly to please her, did you--Margaret?"
"Not wholly."
"I've been looking all day for my answer. I--oh--I wonder if--" he was
gathering courage from her aspect, which for the first time in his
experience failed to keep him at a distance--"dare I think you--bring
it?"
She slowly lifted her face. "I thought it was so--so dear of you," she
murmured, "to come home to your people instead of--staying with me.
I thought you deserved--what you say--you want--"
"Margaret--you--"
"I haven't given you any Christmas present. Will--I--do?"
"Will you do!... Oh!"--It was a great explosive sigh of relief and joy,
and as he gave vent to it he caught her close. "Will--you--do!... Good
Lord!... I rather think you will!"