Mrs. Ochiltree was quietly enjoying herself.  In early life she had been accustomed to impale fools on epigrams, like flies on pins, to see them wriggle.  But with advancing years she had lost in some measure the faculty of nice discrimination,—­it was pleasant to see her victims squirm, whether they were fools or friends.  Even one’s friends, she argued, were not always wise, and were sometimes the better for being told the truth.  At her niece’s table she felt at liberty to speak her mind, which she invariably did, with a frankness that sometimes bordered on brutality.  She had long ago outgrown the period where ambition or passion, or its partners, envy and hatred, were springs of action in her life, and simply retained a mild enjoyment in the exercise of an old habit, with no active malice whatever.  The ruling passion merely grew stronger as the restraining faculties decreased in vigor.

A diversion was created at this point by the appearance of old Mammy Jane, dressed in a calico frock, with clean white neckerchief and apron, carrying the wonderful baby in honor of whose naming this feast had been given.  Though only six weeks old, the little Theodore had grown rapidly, and Mammy Jane declared was already quite large for his age, and displayed signs of an unusually precocious intelligence.  He was passed around the table and duly admired.  Clara thought his hair was fine.  Ellis inquired about his teeth.  Tom put his finger in the baby’s fist to test his grip.  Old Mr. Delamere was unable to decide as yet whether he favored most his father or his mother.  The object of these attentions endured them patiently for several minutes, and then protested with a vocal vigor which led to his being taken promptly back upstairs.  Whatever fate might be in store for him, he manifested no sign of weak lungs.

“Sandy,” said Mrs. Carteret when the baby had retired, “pass that tray standing upon the side table, so that we may all see the presents.”

Mr. Delamere had brought a silver spoon, and Tom a napkin ring.  Ellis had sent a silver watch; it was a little premature, he admitted, but the boy would grow to it, and could use it to play with in the mean time.  It had a glass back, so that he might see the wheels go round.  Mrs. Ochiltree’s present was an old and yellow ivory rattle, with a handle which the child could bite while teething, and a knob screwed on at the end to prevent the handle from slipping through the baby’s hand.

“I saw that in your cedar chest, Aunt Polly,” said Clara, “when I was a little girl, and you used to pull the chest out from under your bed to get me a dime.”

“You kept the rattle in the right-hand corner of the chest,” said Tom, “in the box with the red silk purse, from which you took the gold piece you gave me every Christmas.”

A smile shone on Mrs. Ochiltree’s severe features at this appreciation, like a ray of sunlight on a snowbank.

“Aunt Polly’s chest is like the widow’s cruse,” said Mrs. Carteret, “which was never empty.”