“I can not imagine,” said Mr. Dryden, severely, “how they have contrived to remember the senseless doggerel your sister was so injudicious as to teach them.”
“That is the depravity of human nature!” sighed the wife.
Very sober little faces were uplifted to father and mother for a “good-night” kiss, and very slow footsteps went up the stairs to the chamber which the brother and sister shared in common. There was a pathos in the sound, so unlike was it to the brisk patter of other small feet upon other floors and staircases on that jubilee eve.
The father, albeit he was not an imaginative man, noticed this, and went off to the parlor with a pained and yearning heart--saddened, he knew not by what--longing for something he could not name. The children had interrupted his evening reading, at supper, by their chatter, and he bestowed himself in his armchair by the centre-table, to finish the perusal of his newspaper. His seat was comfortable; the light clear and soft; the evening news interesting; the room still; yet he could not fix his mind upon his occupation. Through the quiet apartment came and went the echoes of the four little feet, in slow dejection, going on up to the repose that was to be visited by no happy dreams of the glories of Christmas morning. He saw, between him and the printed column, the sadly-serious countenances, that were, by this time, laid upon their pillows. He wondered if the pair would cry themselves to sleep. He purposely waxed angry with his sister-in-law for putting these silly notions into the children’s heads. They were contented enough until that unfortunate visit. Now, there was no telling where this mischief would stop. It was too provoking to have two such fine natures soured by repinings and foolish longings; two minds so intelligent filled with superstitious fancies. Yes! they were fine children! if he _did_ say it--and dutiful as handsome and intelligent. His wife had an excellent method of discipline, and deserved much credit for her success in training her offspring. She was a good woman--industrious and conscientious--but he could have wished that her spirits were more equable. He did not relish the idea that his blooming Nettie might, one day, become a toil-worn, pains-taking wife and mother; her smooth forehead be ploughed in two deep furrows, like those that crossed her mother’s, from temple to temple; her pouting lips grow colorless and drawn down at the corners; her bird-like voice sharpen into the shrill peevishness of the tones that had ordered the bairns off to bed. He would like to keep life fresh and bright for his darling so long as he could. She would find out, soon enough, what a dry, dusty, detestable cheat the world was. If he might have his wish, she should be a child always; a merry, laughing, singing fairy, to gladden his old age; a simple-hearted, trusting child, in whose love and purity he could find refreshment, when disheartened by the faithlessness of his fellow-men. She was very fond of him--grave and undemonstrative as he was. With the unerring perception of childhood, she had discovered that she was his favorite, and repaid his partiality in the coin he liked best. The sound of his latch-key in the door was the signal, noon and night, for her to bound down stairs to meet him; to kiss him, and offer, in her pretty, womanly way, to relieve him of his overcoat; to hang up his hat and bring him his slippers. Such nimble feet as hers were! Blithe, willing little feet, how they twinkled to and fro, to perform whatever errands he would suffer her to undertake for his comfort! Merry, dancing little feet!