‘Father,’ said the girl, you’ve no right to say that.  I’m sure he never cared a straw for me.’

‘I don’t think we ought to keep it,’ said Mrs Brower, looking up thoughtfullyy.

‘Shucks and shavin’s!’ said Uncle Eb.  ’Ye don’t know but what I had it sent myself.’

Hope went over and put her arms around his neck.

‘Did you, Uncle Eb?’ she asked.  ’Now you tell me the truth, Uncle Eb.’

’Wouldn’t say ‘t I did,’ he answered, ‘but I don’ want ’a see ye go sendin’ uv it back.  Ye dunno who sent it.’

‘What’ll I do with it?’ Mrs Brower asked, laughing in a way that showed a sense of absurdity.  ’I’d a been tickled with it thirty years ago, but now-folks ‘ud think I was crazy.’

‘Never heard such fol de rol,’ said Uncle Eb.  ‘If ye move t’ the village it’ll come handy t’ go t’ meetin’ in.’

That seemed to be unanswerable and conclusive, at least for the time being, and the silk was laid away.  We sat talking until late bedtime, Hope and I, telling of our studies and of the many people we had met in Hillsborough.

We hung up our stockings just as we had always done Christmas Eve, and were up betimes in the morning to find them filled with many simple but delightful things, and one which I treasure to this day — the locket and its picrure of which I had been surreptitiously informed.

At two o’clock we had a fine dinner of roast turkey and chicken pie, with plenty of good cider, and the mince pie, of blessed memory, such as only a daughter of New England may dare try to make.

Uncle Eb went upstairs after dinner and presently we heard him descending with a slow and heavy foot I opened the stair door and there he stood with the old bass viol that had long lain neglected in a dusty corner of the attic.  Many a night I had heard it groan as the strings loosened, in the years it had lain on its hack, helpless and forgotten.  It was like a dreamer, snoring in his sleep, and murmuring of that he saw in his dreams.  Uncle Eb had dusted and strung it and glued its weaker joints.  He sat down with it’ the severe look of old upon his face, and set the strings roaring as he tuned them.  Then he brought the sacred treasure to me and leaned it against my shoulder.

‘There that’s a Crissmus present fer ye, Willie,’ said he.  ’It may help ye t’ pass away the time once in a while.’

I thanked him warmly.

‘’S a reel firs’-class instrument,’ he said.  ’Been a rip snorter ’n its day.’  He took from his bosom then the old heart pin of silver that he had always worn of a Sunday.

‘Goin’ t’ give ye thet, too,’ he said.  ’Dunno’s ye’ll ever care to wear it, but I want ye should hev sumthin’ ye can carry’n yer pocket t’ remember me by.’

I did not dare trust myself to speak, and I sat helplessly turning that relic of a better day in my fingers.

‘It’s genuwine silver,’ said he proudly.