Then she turned away from the window and threw herself down on the scratchy old haircloth sofa, with her arms folded under her head, to stare at the ceiling and think it all over. She had kept her temper that day, at least; for so much she could be thankful. But now she would have given worlds to run away out of the house and down the street, to spend the evening with Polly or Molly, or even Florence. Mrs. Dwight was busy with her husband, so Jean was quite alone and could be as forlorn as she pleased.

Suddenly she sprang up and listened intently. There was the rhythmic beat of footsteps on the sidewalk which Willie had cleared, and a chorus of blithe young voices rang out on the quiet air.

"'Hark! Hark! Upon the frosty air of night A joyful anthem swells!

A song of gladness and delight, The bells ring out with all their might, And echo o'er the fields, with snow all bright, The merry Christmas bells!'"

"It's a carol!" And Jean strained her ears to listen, while the steps and the voices came nearer, and still nearer.

"'Hark! Hark! About the gray old belfry tower Their gladsome notes resound, And carol through the moonlight hour,

O'er snowy sward and glist'ning bower, The glory of the Lord, whose saving power On earth to-night was found.'"

They were very near now, nearer than Jean realized, for, as the last line died away, the front door swung open and the singers appeared on the threshold, with rosy cheeks and shining eyes, exclaiming in a jovial chorus,--

"Merry Christmas, Jean!"

And Jean stood in amazement, while Alan and Polly set down the great basket that they carried, and the six friends pulled off their coats and hats and prepared to spend a long evening.

What need to linger over the unpacking of the great basket, to listen to the fun as the simple presents and absurd jokes came to light, one after another, while Jean now wiped away a tear or two over Katharine's dainty gift, now laughed convulsively over some ridiculous prank of Alan's plotting? And all the time, the chorus went on, now explaining, now joking, but always bringing to Jean the welcome a.s.surance that her friends did not forget her even in her absence.

It was a successful evening, they all said again and again, as they gathered at the door in the starlight; and Jean stood looking after them with happy eyes as they marched off through the snow, gaily singing the dear old carol,--

"'G.o.d rest ye, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, the Saviour, Was born upon this day.'"

That night when the Christ child came silently over the mountains and down into the sleeping town, he lingered beside their pillows, to whisper to Jean words of encouragement for the coming days of toil, to paint bright visions of the well-filled stockings which the boys were to find in the morning, and to bring to five girls and one young lad his thanks for their helping to do his work here upon the earth. And if the morning brought the merry Christmas to them all, to none it came more truly than to Jean as she watched the children's rapture over their lumpy, shapeless stockings, while she turned, again and again, to look over and caress her own generous share of gifts which the Christmas eve had brought her.

CHAPTER XII.

HALF A DOZEN COOKS.

Christmas had come and gone, and the new year was well started in its course. The time was pa.s.sing rapidly for the seven young people, who were making the very most of the cold, bracing winter weather. There were coasting frolics and skating parties, long walks and longer sleigh-rides, and even one grand s...o...b..ll fight which was brought to an untimely end by a carelessly aimed ball that flew straight from Jessie's hand to the back of Aunt Jane's stately neck, just as that good woman was starting for the jail with a large package of tracts clasped in her black-gloved hands.

The calls on Bridget still continued and the long-talked-of play was slowly approaching completion. Jean had worked on it at intervals during her father's illness, and it was now so nearly done that the girls had thought it was advisable to begin rehearsing on the first part of it at once.

And best of all the good times were the long, cosey evenings, when they gathered around the open fire, either at the Hapgood house, or else in Mrs. Adams's parlor, to talk over the events of the day or tell stories, while they roasted apples and popped corn over the coals, regardless of the fact that much better results and much fewer burns would have come from the same labors performed over the kitchen stove.

They were all settled at Polly's one snowy evening, Mrs. Adams sewing by the lamp, Polly, Jessie, and Alan curled up on the rug, and the others in low chairs, when Aunt Jane came into the room, looking like a funereal sort of spook in her long, shiny black waterproof.

"What now, Jane?" inquired her sister, glancing up from her work.

"Mothers' Meeting," responded Aunt Jane, disdainfully eying the home-like group before her.

"Oh, Jane, I wouldn't take that long walk on such a stormy night,"

urged Mrs. Adams.

"If these children can come here for mere pleasure, it certainly is not too stormy for me to go out on an errand of duty," answered Aunt Jane, with dignity. "And, Isabel, I really think it is your duty, too, as a mother, to go to these meetings. They are very helpful and improving, and would be a great source of comfort to you in training Polly."

"Perhaps they might be, if I went," replied her sister gently; "but you can never make me believe, Jane, that I ought to go away and leave Polly alone, one night in every week."

"Don't go, Mrs. Adams," implored Alan, in an undertone.

"I haven't the least idea of it, Alan," she answered, as the door closed behind Aunt Jane. "People don't all think alike about these things, and your mother and I both believe that we can do more good by staying at home, and trying to know and understand our own boys and girls, than by leaving them while we tell somebody else how to bring up her children that we have never seen." And Mrs.

Adams gave a little nod of conviction, as Katharine moved her chair back to the table, saying heartily,--

"I quite agree with you, auntie."

"Perhaps if you'd always been to the meetings, Jerusalem, I'd have been more of a success," remarked Polly pensively, as she settled herself more comfortably with her head in Jean's lap.

"No use wasting one's time on poor material," said Alan philosophically, while he shielded his face from the blaze with the shovel.

"Molly, do you remember what a time we had one night, trying to make this fire burn?" inquired Polly, thoughtlessly betraying the secret of their experiences.

"Don't I, though!" answered Molly fervently.

"When was that?" asked Florence.

"Last fall, when mamma went to New York," answered Polly. "We wouldn't tell you then, but I don't care now, do you, Molly?"

"You'd better let me tell it," put in Alan. "You girls won't half do it justice. Now listen." And he told the tale of their housekeeping experiences, suppressing nothing, but, on the contrary, making such additions as his fertile brain and an utter disregard of the facts could suggest.

By the time his story was done, Polly and Molly were blushing and protesting, while the other girls were lying back in their seats, exhausted with laughing.

"Is that all?" asked Katharine, as her cousin ceased speaking.

"All! I should think it was, and more too," said Molly. "He made up half of that, and the other half he exaggerated so that it couldn't recognize itself, if it tried."

"How many of you girls would do any better?" added Polly.

"I can't cook the first solitary thing," admitted Florence; "but I had a cousin that used to make bread when she was ten years old."

"Much good that does you," remarked Alan disrespectfully. "My grandmother was a splendid cook, but I never found that it helped Molly any."

"I can cook," said Jean, with manifest pride; "I know how to do meat and lots of things; but I don't suppose I should, if I hadn't had to."

"I always wanted to get into the kitchen, when I was a little girl," said Florence. "We had one girl that used to let me roll out pie-crust and stir up m.u.f.fins; but mamma caught me one day, with a new gown all covered with flour and bits of dough, and after that there was no kitchen for me."

"Ask Alan how he boiled some meat once," said Molly.

Alan hung his head in confusion.

"I'll tell you, if he won't," went on his sister mercilessly. "Two years ago we had some company just before Thanksgiving, and mamma wanted to boil some meat for mince pies. We hadn't any girl, so when we went to ride, she told Alan, to watch it and put in more water when it needed it, so it shouldn't burn. He went off to play ball and forgot it, and--"Molly made an impressive pause.

"Go on, Molly," urged Polly, delighted that the tables were turned, and Alan's failings to be brought to light.

"Well," resumed Molly, ignoring her brother's threatening glances; "as soon as we turned the corner, coming home, we noticed a most awful smell. It grew worse, the nearer we came to the house; and then we saw the kitchen door wide open, and the smoke just pouring out in streams." Molly's metaphors were becoming mixed, but the girls never minded that, as she continued, "Mamma was dreadfully frightened, for she thought the house was on fire. We rushed in, and there was the meat frizzling away on the stove, and Alan so excited that he was just hopping up and down and crying, and letting it burn away, because he didn't dare take it off. It was more than a week before the smoke was out of the house."