Chapter 97
This interruption, though it cuts short Mr Doubleday's speech, is a decidedly pleasant one; and when a burly, rosy-faced Irish gentleman enters and joins the party the magic circle seems finally complete.
I need not recount all the talk of that happy Christmas evening. It was a merry Christmas, without doubt, though not a boisterous one. No one seemed to want any better enjoyment than chatting over old times, or sitting and listening while others chatted; and when Mary's sweet voice rang out presently in the words of some of the grand old Christmas hymns, the joy that lit up more than one face in the happy group spoke more eloquently than words of the true happiness which this season of peace and goodwill brought to their hearts.
In due time the hands of the little clock crawl round to eleven, and the two visitors rise to leave.
When they are gone the rest of the party once more draw in round the fire. By some accident, I suppose, Mr Fred's chair finds itself next to Miss Mary's, which, as it turns out, is convenient, for these two young people happen to have a good deal to say to one another which can only be spoken in whispers.
What they say, or most of what they say, is doubtless silly enough. But one or two sentences have some truth in them, and seem to express what is in the hearts of all that little party.
"Yes," says Mary, "it really does seem as if this was the beginning of a happy time for us all."
"I hope and trust it may be," Fred responds.
"Dear father seems better in health and spirits already, doesn't he?
And Jack--Well, I dare say you are jealous of our taking him away from you?"
"Jealous, no!" says Fred. "He deserves all the happiness he has found, and far more."
"Yes," responds Mary. "He has always been a good brother."
"This one thing I know," says Fred. "If there is any good in me--and there's precious little--I owe it all, under G.o.d, to my friend Smith."
And, reader, I owe it still.
THE END.