Breakfast was a chattering and explosive meal, a severe trial, indeed, to the patience of the littler boy, who decided that he wished never to eat breakfast again.  During the ten days that he had been a member of the household a certain formality observed at the beginning of each meal had held him in abject fascination, so that he looked forward to it with pleased terror.  This was that, when they were all seated, there ensued a pause of precisely two seconds—­no more and no less—­a pause that became awful by reason of the fact that every one grew instantly solemn and expectant—­even apprehensive.  His tingling nerves had defined his spine for him before this pause ended, and then, when the roots of his hair began to crinkle, his grandfather would suddenly bow low over his plate and rumble in his head.  It was very curious and weirdly pleasurable, and it lasted one minute.  When it ceased the tension relaxed instantly, and every one was friendly and cordial and safe again.

This morning the little boy was actually impatient during the rumble, so eager was he to talk.  And not until he had been assured by both his grandfather and Clytie that Santa Claus meant everything he left to be truly kept; that he came back for nothing—­not even for a cane—­of any kind—­that he might have left at a certain house by mistake—­not until then would he heave the sigh of immediate security and consent to eat his egg and muffins, of which latter Clytie had to bring hot ones from the kitchen because both boys had let the first plate go cold.  For Clytie, like Grandfather Delcher, was also one of the last of a race of American giants—­in her case a race preceding servants, that called itself “hired girls”—­who not only ate with the family, but joyed and sorrowed with it and for long terms of years was a part of it in devotion, responsibility and self-respect.  She had, it is true, dreaded the coming of these children, but from the moment that the two cold, subdued little figures had looked in doubting amazement at the four kinds of preserves and three kinds of cake set out for their first collation in the new home, she had rejoiced unceasingly in a vicarious motherhood.

Within an hour after breakfast the morning’s find had been examined, appraised, and accorded perpetual rank by merit.  Grandfather Delcher made but one timid effort to influence decisions.

“Now, Bernal, which do you like best of all your presents?” he asked.  With a heart too full for words the littler boy had pointed promptly but shyly at his candy cane.  Not once, indeed, had he been able to say the words “candy cane.”  It was a creation which mere words were inadequate to name.  It was a presence to be pointed at.  He pointed again firmly when the old man asked, “Are you quite certain, now, you like it best of all?”—­suggestively—­“better than this fine book with this beautiful picture of Joseph being sold away by his wicked brothers?”

The questioner had turned then to the older boy, who tactfully divined that a different answer would have pleased the old man better.