The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation by Annie Fellows Johnston

LLOYD stood at the window in the falling twilight and looked out across / the snow. It had been an ideal Christmas Day. She could feel the chill / of the white winter world outside as she leaned against the frosty pane, / but in her scarlet dress, with the holly berries at her belt and in her / hair, she looked the embodiment of Christmas warmth and cheer, and as if / no cold could touch her.

The candles had not yet been lighted, but the room was filled with the / ruddy glow of the big wood fire. It shone warmly on the frames of the / portraits and the tall gilded harp with its shining strings, and gave a / burnishing touch to Betty's brown hair, as she stood by the piano, / fingering for the hundredth time the presents she had received that day. / Her dress of soft white wool suggested, like Lloyd's, the Yule-tide / season, for in the belt and shoulder-knots of dull green velvet were / caught clusters of mistletoe, the tiny waxen berries gleaming like / pearls.

"Everything is _so_ lovely!" she sighed, happily, picking up her camera / to admire it once more. It was her godmother's gift, and the thing she / had most longed to own.

She focussed it on Lloyd, who, in her scarlet dress, stood vividly / outlined by the firelight against the curtains. "I took three pictures / this morning while Rob was here, all snow scenes. The house, the locust / avenue, and a group of little darkies running after your grandfather, / calling out, 'Chris'mus gif', Colonel!' I think I'd better carry my / things all up to my room," she added, presently. "There'll be so many / people here soon, and so much moving around when the hunt begins, that / they'll be in the way."

"You'll need a wheelbarrow to take them in," answered Lloyd, turning / from the window to watch her gather them up. "You'd bettah call Walkah / to help you."

"Santa Claus certainly was good to me," answered Betty, picking up Mr. / Sherman's gift, a beautiful mother-of-pearl opera-glass. It was like the / one he had given Lloyd, except for the difference in monograms. She / rubbed it lovingly with her handkerchief, and laid it beside the camera / to be carried up-stairs. There were books from the old Colonel, an / ivory photograph-frame exquisitely carved from Lloyd. Dozens of little / articles from the girls at school, and remembrances from nearly every / friend in the Valley. There was more than her arms could hold, and, / bringing a large tray from the dining-room, she made two trips up and / down stairs with it before her treasures were all lodged safely in her / room.

Left alone for the first time that busy day, Lloyd stood a moment longer / peering out into the snowy twilight, and then crossed the room to the / table where her gifts were spread out. There had never been so many for / her since her days of dolls and dishes and woolly lambs. The / opera-glasses like Betty's were what she had wished for all year. The / purse her grandfather had slipped into the toe of her stocking was the / prettiest little affair of gray suede and silver she had ever seen. She / had thought of a dozen delightful ways to spend the gold eagle which it / held.

The book-rack which Betty had burnt for her, with her initials on each / end, was already nearly filled with the books that different friends had / sent her. Rob's gift had been a book. So had Miss Allison's and Mrs. / MacIntyre's and the old family doctor's. Malcolm had sent a great bunch / of American Beauties. She drew the vase toward her and buried her face / a moment in the delicious fragrance. Then she nibbled a caramel from / Keith's box of candy. The rosebud sachet-bag which Gay made lay in the / box of handkerchiefs that good old Mom Beck had given her.

She patted the thick letter from Joyce that told so much of interest / about Ware's Wigwam. She intended to have the water-colour sketch of / Squaw's Peak framed to take back to school with her. Mary's fat little / fingers had braided the Indian basket which came with Joyce's picture, / and Jack himself had killed the wildcat, whose skin he sent to make a / rug for her room. Lloyd was proud of that skin. As she stood smoothing / the tawny fur, the diamond on her finger flashed like fire, and she / stood turning her hand this way and that, that the glow of the flames / might fall on her new ring.

It was a beautifully cut stone in an old-fashioned setting, with the / word "_Amanthis_" engraved inside; but not for a fortune would Lloyd / have had the little circlet changed to a modern setting. For just so had / it been slipped on her grandmother's finger at her fifteenth Christmas. / She had worn it until her daughter's fifteenth Christmas, and now she, / in turn, had given it to Lloyd. All day it had been a constant joy to / her. Aside from the pleasure of possessing such a beautiful ring, she / had a feeling that in its flashing heart was crystallized a triple / happiness, -- the joy of three Christmas days: hers, her mother's, and the / beautiful young girl with the June rose in her hair, who smiled down at / her from the portrait over the mantel.

She smiled up at it now in the same confiding way she had done as a / child, saying, in a low tone: "And when you played on the harp, it / flashed on yoah hand just as it does on mine." Pleased by the fancy, she / crossed the room and struck a few chords on the harp, watching the / firelight flash on the ring as she did so.

"Sing me the songs that to me were so deah, / / Long, long ago, long ago!"

There was a step in the hall, and the portieres were pushed aside as the / old Colonel came in. She did not stop, for she knew he loved the old / song, and that she was helping to bring back his happy past, when he / threw himself into a chair before the fire, and sat looking up at / Amanthis.

When she had finished the song, she perched herself on the arm of his / chair, and began ruffling up his white hair with the little hand which / wore the diamond.