"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.