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.