FullReads

There was never a deeper sincerity than breathed in these astonishing words from Marian, Oliver’s wife. Astonishing, because they all understood, knowing her as they did–Oliver was oldest, and had been first to marry–what a tremendous effort the little speech had cost her, a proud woman of the world, who had never seemed to care whether her husband’s family loved her or not, so that they deferred to her.

For a moment they were all too surprised and touched–for there is nothing more touching than humility, where it is least expected–to speak. Then Ralph, who sat next Marian, brought his fist down on his knee with a thud.

“Bully for you!” said he.

Upon Marian’s other side her husband’s mother slipped a warm, delicate hand into hers. Nan, leaning past Sam’s knee, reached up and patted her sister-in-law’s lap. Everybody else smiled, in his or her most friendly way, at Oliver’s wife; and Oliver himself, though he said nothing, and merely continued to stare fixedly into the fire, looked as if he would be willing to tack pulpit stair-carpets for a living, if it would help to bring about such results as these.

“Marian’s right in calling him a ‘wonderful old man.'” Guy spoke thoughtfully. “He got us all–Fernalds as well as Tomlinsons and Frasers. He hit me, square between the eyes, good and hard–but I’m glad he did,” he owned, with characteristic frankness.

They all sat gazing into the fire in silence, for a little, after that, in the musing way of those who have much to think about. And by and by Father Fernald pulled out his watch and scanned it by the wavering light.

“Bless my soul!” he cried. “It’s close on to twelve o’clock! You children ought to be in bed–oughtn’t they, Mother?”

There was a murmur of laughter round the group, for John Fernald was looking at his wife over his spectacles in just the quizzical way his sons and daughters well remembered.

“I suppose they ought, John,” she responded, smiling at him. “But you might let them sit up a little longer–just this once.”

He looked them over once more–it was the hundredth time his eyes had gone round the circle that night. It was a goodly array of manhood and womanhood for a father to look at and call his own–even William Sewall, the brother of his son’s wife, seemed to belong to him to-night. They gave him back his proud and tender glance, every one of them, and his heart was very full. As for their mother–but her eyes had gone down.

“Well,” he said, leaning over to clasp her hand in his own, as she sat next him, “I guess maybe, just this once, it won’t do any harm to let ’em stay up a little late, They’re getting pretty big, now…. And it’s Christmas Night.”

[Music: Piano or choral arrangement of “Silent Night”]