essing on it and us, the thought came that the answer had
preceded the request and that we were blessed in unusual degree.

After dinner the rugs in the great room were rolled up, and the young
folks danced to Laura's music, which could inspire unwilling feet. But
there were none such that night. Tom and Kate led off in the newest and
most fantastic waltz, others followed, and Polly and I were the only
spectators. An hour of this, and then we gathered around the hearth to
hear Polly read "The Christmas Carol." No one reads like Polly. Her low,
soft voice seems never to know fatigue, but runs on like a musical
brook. When the reading was over, a hush of satisfied enjoyment had
taken possession of us all. It was not broken when Miss Jessie turned to
the piano and sang that glorious hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light." Jack was
close beside her, his blue eyes shining with an appreciation of which
any woman might be proud, and his baritone in perfect harmony with her
rich contralto. The young ladies took the higher part, Frank added his
tenor, and even Phil and I leaned heavily on Jarvis's deep bass. My
effort was of short duration; a lump gathered in my throat that caused
me to turn away. Polly was searching fruitlessly for something to dry
the tears that overran her eyes, and I was able to lend her aid, but the
accommodation was of the nature of a "call loan."

As we separated for the night, Jarvis said: "Lady mother, this day has
been a revelation to me. If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget
it." I was slow in bringing it to a close. As I loitered in my room, I
heard the shuffling of slippered feet in the hall, and a timid knock at
Polly's door. It was quickly opened for Jane and Jessie, and I heard
sobbing voices say:--

"Momee, we want to cry on your bed," and, "Oh, Mrs. Williams, why can't
all days be like this!"

Polly's voice was low and indistinct, but I know that it carried strong
and loving counsel; and, as I turned to my pillow, I was still dreaming
the dream of the morning.

CHAPTER XXXV

WE CLOSE THE BOOKS FOR '96

The morning after Christmas broke clear, with a wind from the south that
promised to make quick work of the snow. The young people were engaged
for the evening, as indeed for most evenings, in the hospitable village,
and they spent the day on the farm as pleased them best.

There were many things to interest city-bred folk on a place like Four
Oaks. Everything was new to them, and