Mr. Mackworth said that Laurry and Jack—two sturdy brown creatures, ten and eight years old—had better help Harry to carry up the boxes, and that, as it was nine o'clock, they need not return: but Mary looked so piteous and imploring, and so earnestly begged that one box might be opened then and there, and that the boys might stay to help, that he gave way with a smile, and settled himself in his arm-chair to see what the box contained. The first things to emerge were the various small pieces of finery which Mary had bought for her sister; nothing very costly, but dainty trifles which Cilla was known to prize: a pair of kid gloves, a collar and cuffs of the latest fashion, a few bright ribbons, and such like feminilities, at sight of which the slight, pale, golden-haired girl coloured with pleasure, and Mary's eyes sparkled with pride and love. Then came Mrs. Mackworth's gift, the warm serviceable shawl which Mary hung over her mother's shoulders, and then drew back, admiringly, watching the long, soft folds which hung gracefully on the still elegant figure.
"You look so nice, mother dear," she said, kissing the worn face which had once been as lovely as Cilla's: "doesn't she now, papa? And isn't the shawl just like herself—so nice, and soft, and grey. I chose it out of the heap directly." There was a laugh at this: and Mrs. Mackworth returned her daughter's kiss, as she assured her that her rheumatic shoulders would be thanking her all the winter through.
Laurry and Jack were made happy with a ball and a peg-top: and Harry with much real satisfaction took possession of the knitted stockings in which Mary excelled. Then, rather timidly, for all his children stood in some awe of the curate, she laid her gift upon her father's knee. Mr. Mackworth put on his spectacles, and studied the title.
"My dear! This book has been my roc's egg ever since it came out. But Mary, my dear, this is a costly gift. Have you found Fortunatus's purse?"
"I'll tell you exactly how it was, papa." And she related the history of her long vain quest, and of the journey to Grueby's, and of the little adventure which had there befallen her. Everybody grew rather excited; and the boys began to make a series of not too brilliant jokes about the chivalrous unknown. It was plain, Harry averred, that he had fallen in love at first sight. Was Mary sure that he had not hung on behind to find out her address? Cilla joined in with small witticisms, but ended by a little laugh and toss peculiar to herself, and the remark: "But it's of no use, Harry! This dear old Goody won't make a heroine of romance! Not in your line, is it, Polly?"
"Ah! if it had been you now, Cilla!" cried Mary, laughing.
The curate, awaking from the study of his new possession, and becoming alive to the fact that his children were talking nonsense, ordered the little boys off to bed, and suggested that Mary's box might as well be removed.
As she stooped to close the lid, she exclaimed, "Here is this mysterious brown-paper parcel left at the bottom, and it had not any of your things in it. Cilla, after all. What can it be?"
She took it up, and was about to open it, when the sound of little shrill voices floated in on the frosty air, and the boys came tumbling down in extraordinary deshabille, to beg that they might stay up to hear the school-children singing Christmas carols. There was a rush to doors and windows, and Mary threw the parcel upon the table, and thought of it no more.
That was a delightful evening; and the midnight chat with Cilla was delightful too. But when Mary had insisted on the weary, eager girl ceasing her chatter and going to sleep, she herself lay awake for long hours, and her thoughts were not pleasant companions. Home was more dear, home faces were more beloved than ever; but coming to it all with a fresh eye and a matured mind, she saw, as she had never seen before, how the whole family was groaning under the heavy pressure of poverty.
"But that, at all events, I'll see to," thought she; "while I am at home Cilla and the dear mother shall always have something that they can eat: but how will it be when I am gone? Well! sufficient to the day is the evil thereof, and I have six whole weeks to spend at home." And comforted by this thought, Mary Mackworth slept soundly on this first night of her return.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S FAREWELL READINGS.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read on Saturday, March 20, and Monday, March 22, at Manchester; Tuesday, March 30, St. James's Hall, London; Wednesday, March 31, Sheffield; Thursday, April 1, and Friday, April 2, Birmingham; Monday, April 5, Tuesday, April 6, Thursday, April 8, and Friday, April 9, Liverpool; Tuesdays, April 13, 27, May 11, and 25, St. James's Hall, London.
All communications to be addressed to Messrs. Chappell and Co., 50, New Bond-street, London, W.
The Right of Translating Articles from All The Year Round is reserved by the Authors.
Published at the Office, No.26, Wellington Street Strand. Printed by C. Whiting, Beaufort House, Strand.
