FullReads

Mrs. Fernald found the stockings, and touched her husband on the shoulder, as he sat unlacing his shoes. “Father, Guy wrote he wanted us to hang up our stockings,” she said, raising her voice a little and speaking very distinctly. The elderly man beside her looked up, smiling.

“Well, well,” he said, “anything to please the boy. It doesn’t seem more than a year since he was a little fellow hanging up his own stocking, does it, mother?”

The stockings were hung in silence. They looked thin and lonely as they dangled beside the dying fire. Marietta hastened to make them less lonely. “Well,” she said, in a shame-faced way, “the silly boy said I was to hang mine, too. Goodness knows what he’ll find to put into it that’ll fit, ‘less it’s a poker.”

They smiled kindly at her, wished her good night, and went back into their own room. The little episode had aroused no suspicions. It was very like Guy’s affectionate boyishness.

“I presume he’ll be down,” said Mrs. Fernald, as she limped quietly about the room, making ready for bed. “Don’t you remember how he surprised us last year? I’m sorry the others can’t come. Of course, I sent them all the invitation, just as usual–I shall always do that–but it is pretty snowy weather, and I suppose they don’t quite like to risk it.”

Presently, as she was putting out the light, she heard Marietta at the door.

“Mis’ Fernald, Peter Piper’s got back in this part o’ the house, somehow, and I can’t lay hands on him. Beats all how cute that cat is. Seem’s if he knows when I’m goin’ to put him out in the wood-shed. I don’t think likely he’ll do no harm, but I thought I’d tell you, so ‘f you heard any queer noises in the night you’d know it was Peter.”

“Very well, Marietta”–the soft voice came back to the schemer on the other side of the door. “Peter will be all right, wherever he is. I shan’t be alarmed if I hear him.”

“All right, Mis’ Fernald; I just thought I’d let you know,” and the guileful one went grinning away.

* * * * *

There was a long silence in the quiet sleeping-room. Then, out of the darkness, came this little colloquy:

“Emeline, you aren’t getting to sleep.”

“I–know I’m not, John. I–Christmas Eve keeps one awake, somehow. It always did.”

“Yes…. I don’t suppose the children realise at all, do they?”

“Oh, no–oh, no! They don’t realise–they never will, till–they’re here themselves. It’s all right. I think–I think at least Guy will be down to-morrow, don’t you?”

“I guess maybe he will.” Then, after a short silence. “Mother–you’ve got me, you know. You know–you’ve always got me, dear.”

“Yes.” She would not let him hear the sob in her voice. She crept close, and spoke cheerfully in his best ear. “And you’ve got me, Johnny Boy!”

“Thank the Lord, I have!”

So, counting their blessings, they fell asleep at last. But, even in sleep, one set of lashes was strangely wet.

* * * * *

“Christopher Jinks, what a drift!”

“Lucky we weren’t two hours later.”

“Sh-h–they might hear us.”

“Nan, stop laughing, or I’ll drop a snowball down your neck!”

“Here, Carol, give me your hand. I’ll plough you through. Large bodies move slowly, of course, but go elbows first and you’ll get there.”

“Gee whiz! Can’t you get that door open? I’ll bet it’s frozen fast.”

A light showed inside the kitchen. The storm-door swung open, propelled by force from inside. A cautious voice said low: “That the Fernald family?”

A chorus of whispers came back at Miss Marietta Cooley:

“Yes, yes–let us in, we’re freezing.”

“You bet we’re the Fernald family–every man-Jack of us–not one missing.”

“Oh, Marietta–you dear old thing!”

“Hurry up–this is their side of the house.”

“Sh-h-h–“

“Carol, your sh-h-ishes would wake the dead!”

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.