The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 | Page 6

card bore the name of a member of the family,
printed on a card, which had been further embellished by a flower or
spray, painted by an artist whose taste was in advance of his
skill--"Father," "Mother," "Amy," "Fred," "Norton," "Mary,"
"Teddums," "May." Eight names in all, but nine chairs, and the ninth no
ordinary, cane-seated chair like the rest, but a beautiful, high-backed,
carved-oak erection, ecclesiastical in design, which looked strangely
out of place in the bare room.
There was no card before this ninth chair, but on the uncushioned seat
lay a square piece of cardboard, bordered with a painted wreath of holly,
inscribed on which were four short words.
Margaret and Peg read them with a sudden shortening of the breath and

smarting of the eyes:
"For the Christ Child!"
"Ah-h!" Margaret's hand stretched out, seized Peg's, and held it fast. In
the rush and bustle of the morning it had been hard to realise the
meaning of the day: now, for the first time, the spirit of Christmas
flooded her heart, filled it with love, with a longing to help and to
serve.
"Peg! Peg!" she cried breathlessly. "How beautiful of them! They have
so little themselves, but they have remembered the old custom, the
sweet old custom, and made Him welcome. . . ." Her eyes roamed to
the window, and lit with sudden inspiration. She lifted her hand and
pointed to a distant steeple rising above the trees. "They have all gone
off to church--father and mother, and Amy and Fred--all the family
together! That's why the house is empty. And dinner is waiting for their
return!"
She turned again to the table, her housekeeper's eye taking in at a flash
the paucity of its furnishings. "Peg! can this be all? All that they have to
eat . . . ? Let us look in the kitchen. . . . I must make quite sure. . . ."
There was no feeling of embarrassment, no consciousness of
impertinent curiosity, in the girls' minds as they investigated the
contents of kitchen and larder. At that moment the house seemed their
own, its people their people; they were just two more members of a big
family, whose duty it was to look after the interests of their brothers
and sisters while they were away; and when evidences of poverty and
emptiness met them on every side, the two pairs of eyes met with a
mutual impulse, so strong that it needed not to be put into words.
In another moment they had left the house behind and were running
swiftly across the meadow towards the car. The chauffeur was busily
engaged on the tyre, Jack and Tom helping, or hindering as the case
might be. The hamper lay on the ground where it had been placed for
greater security during the repairs. The girls nipped it up by its handles,
and ran off again, regardless of protests and inquiries.

It was very heavy, delightfully heavy: the bearers rejoiced in its weight,
wished it had been three times as heavy; the aching of their arms was a
positive joy to them as they bore their burden into the little dining-room,
and laid it down upon the floor.
[Sidenote: What shall we do with it?]
"Now! What shall we do now? Shall we lay out the things and make a
display on the table, or shall we put the pie in the oven beside that tiny
ghost of a joint, and the pudding in a pan beside the potatoes? Which
do you think would be best?"
But Margaret shook her head.
"Neither! Oh! don't you see, both ways would look too human, too
material. They would show too plainly that strangers had been in, and
had interfered. I want it to look like a Christmas miracle . . . as if it had
come straight. . . . We'll lay the basket just as it is, on the Christ Child's
chair. . . ."
Peg nodded. She was an understanding Peg, and she rose at once to the
poetry of the idea. Gently, reverently, the girls lifted the basket which
was to have furnished their own repast, laid it on the carved-oak chair,
and laid on its lid the painted card; then for a moment they stood side
by side, gazing round the room, seeing in imagination the scene which
would follow the return of the family from church . . . the incredulity,
the amaze, the blind mystification, the joy. . . . Peg beamed in
anticipation of the delight of the youngsters; Margaret had the strangest,
eeriest feeling of looking straight into a sweet, worn face; of feeling the
clasp of work-worn hands. It was imagination, she told herself, simple
imagination, yet the face was alive. . .