“We are always trembling in the verge of tragedy,” he said lightly, and then rang for refreshments; and after that we retired.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Christmas tree.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, the one drawback the lack of snow.  Thomas had everything in readiness, and every one in the house was looking forward to a sleigh-ride.  However, all the other Christmas customs were observed.  Before breakfast was the general distribution of gifts.  We were all assembled at the usual breakfast hour in the dining-room, when Mrs. Flaxman rang the bell for the servants to come in.  Reynolds was the first to appear.  She took her seat nearest to Mr. Winthrop; then Mrs. Jones, the cook, and Thomas, Esmerelda, and Samuel came in.

Reynolds got her present first—­a nice black silk dress.  I saw by the pleased flush in her face that she was considerably astonished.  The others, each a five-dollar bill; and for Samuel, a jack-knife that would be the envy of all his comrades.  Mrs. Flaxman had something for each one of them, and then I followed.  When I reached Samuel and handed him the watch from which was suspended a glittering chain, his politeness quite forsook him.  “Golly, but that’s a stunner,” he ejaculated involuntarily.  Suddenly remembering himself he said, very humbly:  “Thank you, ma’am.”  Thomas regarded his book with some apprehension; but turning over the leaves, the pictures of so many handsome horses reconciled him.  After they had filed out I took my opportunity to deliver the gifts I had prepared with much care for Mr. Winthrop and Mrs. Flaxman; for the latter an idealized portrait of Hubert, in a heavy gilt frame, which I had painted from a photograph; and for Mr. Winthrop a much better picture of Oaklands than the one he already possessed.

I turned to Mr. Bovyer uncertainly, and, after a moment hesitation, said:  “I have a bit of my work here for you; but it is so little worth.  I am ashamed to offer it.”  I handed him the folded leaves, tied with ribbons, of Longfellow’s “Reapers and the Angels,” which I had spent some time in trying to illustrate, with the hope one day of turning it into cash.  He thanked me, I thought, with unnecessary fervor, considering the smallness of the gift, and stood examining my poor attempt to express the poet’s meaning by brush and pencil.

“I say, Winthrop, this is really clever for one so young.”

Mr. Winthrop took the book and turned over the leaves.

“You have reason to be proud, Medoline, that one of our severest art critics has pronounced favorably on your work.  Perhaps the being remembered on Christmas morning has made him blind to its faults.”

“I find Mr. Winthrop a very healthy corrective against any flattering remarks of my other friends, I accept him as a sort of mental tonic,” I said, turning to Mr. Bovyer.