THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

Wairarapa Standard, Volume II, Issue 54, 13 January 1868, Page 4

THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

“ Please, missus,” said a lad’s voice at the door, “have ye a parcel for the Rectory ? I’ve knocked three or four times, and couldn’t make ye hear,” “ Yes, tliere’s two,” said Joe, starting up from the table. “ Can ye carry ’em •both ? One’s a hamper.” Taking the single candle from the table, Joe left the little party by the lia’ht of the fire, whilst he went into the package room to seek them. It was lucky for Mrs Gibbs that her countenance was not very visible at that moment, for she had not reckoned upon the chance of her own son betraying her, and the number of times that she changed colour during his lengthened search amongst the hampers, in the adjoining room, for the missing one, could not have escaped notice from the most indifferent observer.

“ Mother, have ye moved any of the hampers f ” called out Joe, after fruitless search of several minutes.

“ Only neighbor Leyburn’s, that I tuk in myself,” was the reply. “Why, for sure, I thowt there was one for the Rectory,” said Joe; “ but I can’t find it.”

“ Never mind noo,” called his father, impatient at being left in the dark. “ Give the lad the parcel, and we’ll send the hamper up when it’s found.”

Month after month rolled on; Spring passed; Summer came and went. Old Mrs Leyburn was about again, restored in health, but grievously subdued in spirit. The old man was sadly broken down, and shrunk more than everjfrom the society of neighbors. Their daughter Maggie, once their brightest joy and pride, was as one dead to them. Her very name was buried in an imaginary grave. Their lips, with tacit consent, had dropped its sound by slow degrees, and now, altogether, ceased to take it up again. The poor little infant, who had added so much poignancy' to their sorrow, did not live long to continue a trouble to them; its tiny spirit ebbed away after a nine week’s suffering existence; and even the heartless woman who had palmed it so cruelly upon the old people had the grace to feel that its death was a relief to all. Chapter IV. Old King Christmas had come again, and with him all the concomitants of good friends, good wishes, and good cheer. It was an unusually gay' season for our little village. The new railway had been opened, and consequently' several empty houses in the neighborhood had found new tenants, The new Lord of the Manor was daily expected at the Hall; and a grand christening at at the Rectory had brought many visitors there.

It was Christmas Eve again. Old Mr and Mrs Leyburn was still alone in the old house, and its little shop. It had been a very gusty day, and the desolate aspect of the driving wind and sleet had caused them to close the shop-door, and retire to tea in their snug little parlour a good deal earlier than usual. The room was tidy, the fire was cheeful,the tea was good, and the eatables were tempting; but nothing was enjoyed by the possessors of these comforts. The one thing that had formerly given a zest to life for them was wanting, and on this night, above all others, the poor bereaved parents missed their child. The old woman had poured out the tea—two cups only gracing the little board—and placed her husband’s before him, with a little sigh. He drew it a trifle nearer, and listlessly stirred the sweetened beverage. Both were thinking of that night twelve months ago, and of their joyous anticipations then so cruelly disappointed. The nice hot cakes remained untasted, until each looked at the other questioningly. “Come, father,” said Mrs Leyburn, “won’t ye eat a bit? There’s lots o’ currants and spice i’ them cakes.” The old woman knew her husband’s childish weakness for sweets.

Not to-night, missus” said he; “I couldn’t; they’d choke me.” She did not ask him again, and both remained silent for several minutes. How they each longed to relieve their tongues of a name They were dying to Seak! —but neither had courage to break e ice.

“ It's a dowly night,” said the wife, presently; “and ’tisn’t every poor creature that has a comfortable roof to coyer them.”

“ Thee’s right, missus,” was the bushand’s quiet rejoinder, and then another long silence ensued. At length their oppression became so heavy that it was scarcely hearable. “Father, I must speak!” cried the wife, with a sudden start. “It’s many a week, ay, months, sin’ we have breathed her name. But Christmas has corned—the season of joy, and peace, and goodwill toward men. Our Maggie may have sinned—mind ye, I don’t say that she has ” —oh that mother’s love, that even yet hoped against all hope!—“ but ye’ll not let tne blessed time go by with unforgiveness in yer heart: Tell me thee hes forgiven her, father, and we shall both be the happier for it.” “ Missus, I can’t,” said he. “ She’s taken the light from our life, the fire from our blood, and the savour from our meat. Why will ye mention her name, unless ye wish me to call down Heaven’s mal—— ’ “Oh no, no, no! father, do not curse me! If you have suffered, I have borne ■ten thousand agonies for your one! ” The voice was Maggie’s own. Husband and wife both started from their seats. In another moment their child was kneeling at their fret.

“ Maggie, my bain, my own dear bain ! ” cried the mother, falling on the returned wanderer’s neck, and forgetting everything but her loved one’s presence. “ And my father 1 ” said the beautiful Maggie, after returning her mother’s salute, “ why does he look so sternly at me, and speak not one word of kindly welcome? Have I offended him beyond repair ? ” She spoke low and hurriedly, and her breath came quick and broken. ‘■‘Father’speak to her!” pleaded her uiother, earnestly. “ Can you look at thi& ‘ dear 'loved face again, and not pardon her?” But the old man stood, with a hard, relentless expression on his countenance; and when the mother spoke, he pressed his lips together, as if for fear one lenient word should escape. “ Nay, nay, thee’s too severe,” said his wife. “ Maggie, my child, thee cannot be the thing he thinks thee! Speak to him bairn, and tell him thy mother’s heart spoke the truth.” “ What mother ? what can you mean ? ” asked Maggie, drawing herself back, with a terrified look on her face. “ She’s innocent, father!—l told you so. Look at her, and see if ye dare to say she’s not! ” cried the mother exultingly. “ Innocent! ” said Maggie; “of what mother ? Father, it was for your sake that I went—yours and my mother’s. Was it such a very gTave offence ? ” “Went!” said the old man; “our sakes! Child, child! —what was—where —where did thee go ? ” He spoke hysterically, his eyes starting, bis lips quivering, and his limbs trembling so, that he was forced to support himself by holding the back of his chair. “To India, father,” replied Maggie. “ Didn’t you get my letter ? ” “To Injee! ” exclaimed both parents, in a breath. “ Thee hesn’t been to Injee, Maggie ?” cried the mother, almost alarmed. “Maggie, tell that thy mother was not deceived in thee, and thee is my own pure bairn again ? ” said the father, dying to hold her in his arms once more. Maister, maister, how can you doubt her noo ? Be still, and let her tell us everything,” said his wife, half angrilly. “ Oh, mother, how I have longed for a word from ymu both ! ” said Maggie, tears starting to her eyes. “If father was so very vexed with me, surely you in pity might have dropped me a single line. It was all done in such a hurry, and I was so very miserable afterwards; but I did it for the best, though I had such a little time to think.” “ I write! ” said her mother. “My bairn, how could I, when I hadn't your direction ? ” “I gave you an address that would find me when I arrived there, mother, replied Maggie; “ and oh, how I did look out for a letter from home! But mail after mail came in, and still no news for me. Mother, I thought I should have died with disappointment, and went almost mad with myself for having gone out without your consent. I did so beg in my letter for one little line to say that you and father were not very angry with me.” “ And that child you sent was not—” “ Of course not, maister,” said his wife, “It’s been some trick. I told you ’twarn’t our Maggie’s. Can’t ye believe her noo ? ”

“ Oh, Maggie, Maggie, my bairn, my own bonny bairn,” said the old man, extending his arms, “ have I so wrouged ye as to think ye wad wilfully cause yer mother an’ me such a sorrow ? I see it all noo. It warn’t of yer ain will that ye kept away sae lang. Come to me, darling, and say that ye forgive yer poor, unjust old father.” “ Father, father, what is it you mean ? I can have nothing to forgive,” said the affectionate girl, looking up fondly in her parent’s race, as she remained pressed within his arms.

“ I cannot tell thee noo, my child,” said her father; “ I is too happy to think thee my own good Maggie again.” “ But, father, I have something else to telly.” said ,Maggie. “Will you be be patient and hear me to the end of ray little tale ? And though I am not quite so good as you may think me, perhaps you will find it not so very hard to forgive your naughty child.” “ When I sent you word from London that I was coming on Christmas Eve to spend a week with you, my poor little pupil, as I then said, was suffering from a fearful cold. It was chiefly in the throat, and was suddenly carried off in a fit of suffocation. Not wishing to make you uneasy, and hoping still to see you, according to my pre-arrangement, I did not send you word of her death, and I remained in the house to be of use to the child’s mamma in her deep distress. “ On the day before Christmas Eve I was purchasing some mourning for ray mistress, when I happened to encounter Miss St Hillaire in one of the shops. You’llfrember her, mother ?—she used to visit at the Hall here sometimes—well, she spoke to me, and was so kind and pleasant. She asked how you and my father were, and where I was staying in town. I told her I was in a situation, but had lost my little pupil only two days before; then she suddenly turned very thoughtful, and asked me if I’d mind going a little way in the carriage with her, as she wanted to talk to me; so, as I had plenty of time, I went, and we drove to a beautiful house, where she asked me to alight with her. Wo went into the drawing-room, and she left mo there alone for about ten minutes. When she came in again, a tail, dark, handeame man was with her, whom she said was her eldest brother, Colonel St. Hillaire, In a few words he told me that he was about to sail for India with that sister and his two little girls. He was a widower, and had come over to

England on leave of absence to take bis children over, as their mother had died twelve months before, and he wished to have them with him. His sister had consented to take charge of them, so he had broken up his house in town, and meant to take one in Madras. He had, engaged a governess for his little girls, to go with them; but as, unfortunately; when just about to start, her friends had refused to let her go, she had thrown up her engagement, and he was now in the awkward fix ofhavingtolook for another at the very latest moment. He said that his sister seemed to know me and my family well, and had the greatest respect for us,and, moreover,heard from many sources of my abilities; if I was willing to go. He offered me a salary of fifty pounds for the first year, to be increased the next, if I should suit them. TO BE CONTINUED.