not one left. The last dish is evidently taken from the china-closet,
and the whole house is filled with that portentous stillness which
causes the mothers of mischievous offspring so much trepidation.

You expect to see the merino morning-wrapper reconnoitering the
movements of your own sweet pledges of affection; but she doesn't: you
can only hear the ticking of the little French clock on the
mantle-piece, and the spluttering of the coal as it bursts into a gassy
flame between the bars of the grate, and you almost imagine Christmas
has passed. You are deceived; for by-and-by you hear your children's
footsteps as they skip over the garden-walk, and the sound of their
ringing laughter as they rush in out of the cold, and their clamor rises
louder and gladder and more jubilant than ever. Grandpa! Who does not
know him, with his joyous face and hearty morning greeting? How
resplendent he looks in his broadcloth suit, his gold-headed cane and
great blue overcoat! What quantities of almonds and raisins, of oranges
and sweetmeats, those overcoat-pockets contain! What child ever lived
who did not believe grandpa's pocket a cornucopia for all juvenile
desires? The day passes on. The turkey never looked browner or juicier,
and the blaze on the pudding-sauce never burned bluer; the kissing under
the mistletoe was never more delightful, nor the blindman's-buff ever
played with a greater zest: but the merriest Christmas must end. Your
little girl, tired and sleepy, kneels at your feet, and you pass your
fingers through her soft curls, while she repeats her simple prayer:
"God bless pa, God bless ma, God bless grandpa, God bless little
brother, and God bless Santa Claus;" and you hope that God _will_ bless
Santa Claus. You thank your Creator you _are_ the master of that quiet
home and the father of those dear children, and go to your rest with a
heart full of gratitude. You hope that all the newspaper-boys, and all
the milkmen and bread-men's children, and all the little boys and girls