Charlie, the baby, as he is called, now almost three years old, has
donned his new red flannel dress, and white apron, in honor of the day.
James is cracking butternuts in one corner, and a well-heaped milk-pan
is the trophy of his persevering toil. Lucy, the eldest sister, has come
home, and she and Mary are deep in some confidential conversation the
opposite side of the room, stopping every now and then to listen, as if
expecting to hear some pleasant sound. Among them all, the mother moves
with a beaming face and quiet step, completing the arrangements of the
table, which is standing at the backside of the room, covered by a snowy
cloth, and decorated with the best plates, and china cups and saucers,
the relics of more prosperous days.
"Hurra, they've come! they've come!" said James, tossing down his
hammer, and bounding over the pan of nuts; "that's our wagon, I know."
All are at the door. 'Tis they! Yes, 'tis John and Arthur, our dear
little Arthur home again! How they all seize upon and kiss him! How the
mother holds him to her heart with tearful eyes! Ah, this is joy; such
joy as can be purchased only by separation and suffering.
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