gazing intently at the lights in the chandelier--there he was, sitting
up in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without winking, and making
indentations in his soft visage with an oyster-shell, to that degree
that a heart of iron must have loved him! In short, there never was a
more successful supper; and when Kit ordered in a glass of something
hot to finish with, and proposed Mr and Mrs Garland before sending it
round, there were not six happier people in all the world.

But all happiness has an end--hence the chief pleasure of its next
beginning--and as it was now growing late, they agreed it was time to
turn their faces homewards. So, after going a little out of their way
to see Barbara and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they
were to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the door, with
an early appointment for returning to Finchley next morning, and a
great many plans for next quarter's enjoyment. Then, Kit took little
Jacob on his back, and giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the
baby, they all trudged merrily home together.

CHAPTER 40

Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next
morning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's
enjoyments a little shaken by cool daylight and the return to every-day
duties and occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the
appointed place. And being careful not to awaken any of the little
household, who were yet resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left
his money on the chimney-piece, with an inscription in chalk calling
his mother's attention to the circumstance, and informing her that it
came from her dutiful son; and went his way, with a heart something
heavier than his pockets, but free from any very great oppression
notwithstanding.

Oh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret? why cannot we
push them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put them
at once at that convenient distance whence they may be regarded either
with a calm indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection! why will
they hang about us, like the flavour of yesterday's wine, suggestive of
headaches and lassitude, and those good intentions for the future,
which, under the earth, form the everlasting pavement of a large
estate, and, upon it, usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts!

Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's mother
was disposed to be c