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Both were dressed in rough clothes, trousers tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts, and soft riding-hats. The Englishman wore gloves and affected a certain loud style in dress. They carried their riding-whips, and walked undismayed upon the bright colors of the rug.
"O, I say now, get off there with those great clods of boots, can't you?" exclaimed Christie, with a sudden descent of housewifely carefulness. "Anybody'd think you'd been brought up in a barn, Armstrong."
Armstrong put on his eye-glasses,—he always wore them as if they were a monocle,—and examined the rug carefully.
"Aw, I beg pawdon! Awfully nice, ain't it? Sorry I didn't bring my patent leathers along. Remind me next time, please, Mawtimer."
Christie told the story of his Christmas gifts in as few words as possible. Somehow he did not feel like elaborating it.
The guests seized upon the photograph of the girls, and became hilarious over it.
"Takes you for a girl, does she?" said Mortimer. "That’s great! Which one is she? I choose that fine one with snapping black eyes and handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she wouldn't have laughed when her picture was taken."
Victoria Landis's eyes would have snapped indeed, could she have heard the comments upon herself and the others; but she was safe out of hearing, far up in the North.
The comments went on most freely. Christie found himself disgusted with his friends. Only yesterday he would have laughed at all they said, and now what made the difference? Was it that letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if he should read it to them?
But he never would! The red blood stole up in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter now over the tender little girlish phrases. It should not be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he had put it in his coat pocket the night before.
There seemed to be a sacredness about the letter and the pictures and all the things, and it went against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of his friends.
At last they began to speak about the girl in the centre of the group, the clear-eyed, firm-mouthed one whom he had selected for Hazel. His blood boiled. He could stand it no longer. With one sweep of his long, strong arm he struck the picture from them with "Aw, shut up! You make me tired!" and, picking it up, put it in his pocket.
Where at the fun of his companions took a new turn. It suited their fancy to examine the toilet-table decked out in blue and lace. The man named Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs for woman's attire, and they turned upon their most unwilling host and decked him in fine array.
He sat helpless and mad, with a large lace collar over his shoulders, and another hanging down in front arranged over the bureau-cover, which was spread across him as a background, while a couple of lace-bordered handkerchiefs adorned his head.
"And what are you going to say to her for all these pretty presents, Christie, my girl?" laughed Mortimer.
"Say to her!" gasped Christie.
It had not occurred to him before that it would be necessary to say anything. A horrible oppression seemed to be settling down upon his chest. He wished that the whole array of things were back in their boxes and on their way to their ridiculous owners. He got up, and kicked at the rug, and tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the lavender bedroom slippers which his tormentors had stuck on the toes of his shoes.
"Why, certainly, man,—I beg your pardon,—my dear girl—" went on Mortimer. "You don't intend to be so rude as not to reply, or say, 'I thank you very kindly.’”
“HE SAT HELPLESS AND MAD"
Christie's thick auburn brows settled into a scowl, but the attention of the others was drawn to the side of the room where the organ stood.
"That’s awfully fine, don't you know?" remarked Armstrong, leveling his eye-glasses at the picture. "It’s by somebody great, I don’t just remember who."
“Fine frame," said Mortimer tersely as he opened the organ and sat down before it.
And the new owner of the picture felt for the first time in his acquaintance with these two men that they were somehow out of harmony with him.
He glanced up at the picture with the color mounting in his face, half pained for the friendly gaze that had been so lightly treated. He did not in the least understand himself.
But the fingers touching the keys now were not altogether unaccustomed. A soft, sweet strain broke through the room, and swelled louder and fuller until it seemed to fill the little log house and be wafted through the open windows to the world outside.
Christie stopped in his walk across the room, held by the music. It seemed the full expression of all he had thought and felt during the last few hours.
A few chords, and the player abruptly reached out to the pile of singing-books above him, and, dashing the book open at random, began playing, and in a moment in a rich, sweet tenor sang. The others drew near, and each took a book and joined in.
"He holds the key of all unknown,
And I am glad;
If other hands should hold the key,
Or if He trusted it to me,
I might be sad."
The song was a new creed spoken to Christie's soul by a voice that seemed to fit the eyes in the picture. What was the matter with him? He did not at all know. His whole life seemed suddenly shaken.
It may be that the fact of his long residence alone in that desolate land, with but few acquaintances, had made him more ready to be swayed by this sudden stirring of new thoughts and feelings. Certain it was that Christie Bailey was not acting like himself.
But the others were interested in the singing. It had been long since they had had an instrument to accompany them, and they enjoyed the sound of their own voices. They would have preferred, per-haps, a book of college songs, or, better still, the latest street songs; but, as they were not at hand, and "Gospel Hymns" were, they found pleasure even in these.
On and on they sang, through hymn after hymn, their voices growing stronger as they found pieces which had in them some hint of familiarity.
The music filled the house, and floated out into the bright summer Christmas world outside; and presently Christie felt rather than saw a movement at the window, and, looking up, beheld it dark with little, eager faces of the black children. Their supply of firecrackers having given out, they had sought for further celebration, and had been drawn with delight by the unusual sounds. Christie dropped into a chair and gazed at them in wonder, his eyes growing troubled and the frown deepening. He could not make it out. Here he had been for some time, and these little children had never ventured to his premises. Now here they were in full force, their faces fairly shining with delight, their eyes rolling with wonder and joy over the music.
It seemed a fulfillment of the prophecy of the letter that had come with the organ. He began to tremble at the thought of the possibilities that might be entailed upon him with his newly acquired and unsought-for property. And yet he could not help a feeling of pride that all these things were his and that a girl of such evident refinement and cultivation had taken the trouble to send them. To be sure, she wouldn't have done it at all if she had had any idea who or what he was, but that did not matter. She did not know, and she never would know.
He saw the children's curious eyes wander over the room and rest here and there delighted, and his own eyes followed theirs. How altogether nice it was! What a desolate hole it had been before! How was it he