Crittenden

"Now, gal, I reckon I got yer!" he cried; and whites and blacks broke

into jolly laughter, and the music of fiddles rose in the kitchen, where

there was a feast for Bob's and Molly's friends. Rose, too, the music of

fiddles under the stairway in the hall, and Mrs. Crittenden and Judge

Page, and Crittenden and Mrs. Stanton, and Judith and Basil, and none

other than Grafton and radiant little Phyllis led the way for the

opening quadrille. It was an old-fashioned Christmas the mother wanted,

and an old-fashioned Christmas, with the dance and merriment and the

graces of the old days, that the mother had. Over the portrait of the

eldest Crittenden, who slept in Cuba, hung the flag of the single star

that would never bend its colours again to Spain. Above the blazing log

and over the fine, strong face of the brave father, who had fought to

dissolve the Union, hung the Stars and Bars--proudly. And over the brave

brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the Stars and

Stripes for which he had given his young life.

Then came toasts after the good old fashion--graceful toasts--to the

hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer.

And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a

hush.

It was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold

fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go

back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh strength; good for the

man, the State, the nation. And it was best for the man to go back to

the ideals that had dawned at his mother's knee; for there was the

fountain-head of the nation's faith in its God, man's faith in his

nation--man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. And he drank to

one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever

realize them for himself. Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply

moved: "My little brother."

He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all

present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the

sudden light of tears.

At last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of

servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and

all to one and all; the mother's kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were

under their mother's wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of

lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate--and, over the

earth, white silence. The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son.