Yes, Samuel Povey had won the battle concerning the locus of the family Christmas.  But he had received the help of a formidable ally, death.  Mrs. Harriet Maddack had passed away, after an operation, leaving her house and her money to her sister.  The solemn rite of her interment had deeply affected all the respectability of the town of Axe, where the late Mr. Maddack had been a figure of consequence; it had even shut up the shop in St. Luke’s Square for a whole day.  It was such a funeral as Aunt Harriet herself would have approved, a tremendous ceremonial which left on the crushed mind an ineffaceable, intricate impression of shiny cloth, crape, horses with arching necks and long manes, the drawl of parsons, cake, port, sighs, and Christian submission to the inscrutable decrees of Providence.  Mrs. Baines had borne herself with unnatural calmness until the funeral was over:  and then Constance perceived that the remembered mother of her girlhood existed no longer.  For the majority of human souls it would have been easier to love a virtuous principle, or a mountain, than to love Aunt Harriet, who was assuredly less a woman than an institution.  But Mrs. Baines had loved her, and she had been the one person to whom Mrs. Baines looked for support and guidance.  When she died, Mrs. Baines paid the tribute of respect with the last hoarded remains of her proud fortitude, and weepingly confessed that the unconquerable had been conquered, the inexhaustible exhausted; and became old with whitening hair.

She had persisted in her refusal to spend Christmas in Bursley, but both Constance and Samuel knew that the resistance was only formal.  She soon yielded.  When Constance’s second new servant took it into her head to leave a week before Christmas, Mrs. Baines might have pointed out the finger of Providence at work again, and this time in her favour.  But no!  With amazing pliancy she suggested that she should bring one of her own servants to ’tide Constance over’ Christmas.  She was met with all the forms of loving solicitude, and she found that her daughter and son-in-law had ‘turned out of’ the state bedroom in her favour.  Intensely flattered by this attention (which was Mr. Povey’s magnanimous idea), she nevertheless protested strongly.  Indeed she ’would not hear of it.’

“Now, mother, don’t be silly,” Constance had said firmly.  “You don’t expect us to be at all the trouble of moving back again, do you?” And Mrs. Baines had surrendered in tears.

Thus had come Christmas.  Perhaps it was fortunate that, the Axe servant being not quite the ordinary servant, but a benefactor where a benefactor was needed, both Constance and her mother thought it well to occupy themselves in household work, ‘sparing’ the benefactor as much as possible.  Hence Constance’s white apron.

“There he is!” said Mr. Povey, still playing, but with his eye on the street.

Constance sprang up eagerly.  Then there was a knock on the door.  Constance opened, and an icy blast swept into the room.  The postman stood on the steps, his instrument for knocking (like a drumstick) in one hand, a large bundle of letters in the other, and a yawning bag across the pit of his stomach.