Not
long afterward the old house stood silent and dark in the pallid landscape.
Though greatly wearied, Amy was kept awake during the earlier part of the
night by the novelty of her new life and relations, and she was awakened
in the late dawn of the following day by exclamations of delight from
Mrs. Leonard's room. She soon remembered that it was Christmas morning.
The children evidently had found their stockings, for she heard Johnnie
say, "Oh, mamma, do you think Aunt Amy is awake? I would so like to take
her stocking to her!"
"Yes," cried Amy, "I'm awake"; and the little girl, draped in white, soon
pushed open the door, holding her own and Amy's stockings in hands that
trembled with delightful anticipation.
"Jump into bed with me," said Amy, "and we will empty our stockings
together."
The years rolled back, the previous months of sorrow and suffering were
forgotten; the day, the hour, with its associations, the eager child that
nestled close to her, made her a child again. She yielded wholly to her
mood; she would be a little girl once more, Johnnie's companion in
feeling and delight; and the morning of her life was still so new that
the impulses of that enchanted age before the light of experience has
defined the world into its matter-of-fact proportions came back unforced
and unaffected. Her voice vied with Johnnie's in its notes of excitement
and pleasure, and to more than one who heard her it seemed that their
first impression was correct, that a little child had come to them, and
that the tall, graceful maiden was a myth.
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