.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53402
   :PG.Title: Brotherly House
   :PG.Released: 2016-10-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Grace \S. Richmond
   :MARCREL.ill: Thomas \J. Fogarty
   :DC.Title: Brotherly House
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===============
BROTHERLY HOUSE
===============

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: coverpage

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. _`Cover art`:

   .. figure:: images/img-cover.jpg
      :figclass: white-space-pre-line
      :align: center
      :alt: Cover art

      Cover art

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: frontispiece

   .. _`"They made merry for the benefit of Uncle Stephen"`:

   .. figure:: images/img-front.jpg
      :figclass: white-space-pre-line
      :align: center
      :alt: "They made merry for the benefit of Uncle Stephen"

      "They made merry for the benefit of Uncle Stephen"

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. _`Title page`:

   .. figure:: images/img-title.jpg
      :figclass: white-space-pre-line
      :align: center
      :alt: Title page

      Title page

   .. class:: xx-large bold

      Brotherly
      House

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: large bold

      by
      Grace S. Richmond

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      Frontispiece by
      Thomas J. Fogarty

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      *A. L. Burt Company*
      *Publishers New York*

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
      INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: small

      Copyright
      1912
      Doubleday
      Page & Co.

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. _`Copyright notice`:

   .. figure:: images/img-copyright.jpg
      :figclass: white-space-pre-line
      :align: center
      :alt: Copyright notice

      Copyright notice

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Headpiece`:

.. figure:: images/img-001.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Headpiece

   Headpiece

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Page 3`:

.. figure:: images/img-003.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Page 3

   Page 3

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Brotherly House

.. class:: center large bold

   A Christmas Story

.. vspace:: 2

"It seems to me,"
said Mr. Stephen
Kingsley thoughtfully
to himself, as he laid
down his younger
brother Samuel's letter, "that it
would be a very good thing to
get Sam and Sylvester together.
Judging by this letter—and one I
had not long ago from Syl—it
must be some three or four years
since they've met—voluntarily.
And that is too long—altogether
too long—for brothers to remain in
relations—er—lacking harmony."

He perused the letter again.  As
he had observed, its general tenor
certainly did suggest that the
relations between Samuel and
Sylvester lacked harmony, and that
that was a very mild putting of
the case.  Samuel's terse phrases
left the situation in no doubt whatever.

.. vspace:: 2

"I don't like to say it to you, Stephen,"
the letter ran in one portion, "but
Sylvester has acted not only unfairly, but
contemptibly.  I could have forgiven
him the act itself, but the manner of the
act—never.  It was done too deliberately,
too designedly, to be overlooked.
I shall not overlook it.  I shall——"
etc.

.. vspace:: 2

In short, the letter had not been
pleasant reading.  The white-haired
brother who read it, lying
back among his invalid's pillows,
with a wry little twist of pain about
his gentle lips as his eyes
laboriously followed Samuel's vigorous
scrawls and equally vigorous
language, felt it to be a matter in
which it was time to interfere.
Men and brothers of the age of
Samuel and Sylvester—neither
would see forty-five years again—should
not be allowed to feel in this
way toward each other if their
elder brother could help it.

"He 'doesn't like to say it,'"
commented Stephen Kingsley with
mild irony, "yet he seems to say
it with considerable relish,
nevertheless.  The question is—what
can I do?"

He closed his eyes and lay thinking.
After a little he put out his
hand and touched an electric bell.
Its distant summons presently
brought into the room the tall and
commanding figure of a woman
with iron-gray hair and a capable
face.  Mrs. Griggs had been
Mr. Stephen Kingsley's housekeeper for
thirty years; there could be no
person more fitting for an elderly
bachelor to consult.

Mr. Kingsley opened his eyes
and regarded Mrs. Griggs with an
air of deliberation.  His plans were
made.  He announced them.  As
one looked at Mrs. Griggs one
would hardly have expected an
employer so helpless as he to issue
orders to a subject so powerful as
she, in so firm a manner.  Yet he
gave the impression of consulting
her, after all.

"Mrs. Griggs," said he, "I am
thinking of having a Christmas
house-party.  Merely the family,
you know.  Yet that means a
considerable number, including—er—all
the babies.  Should you think
we could accommodate them?"

Mrs. Griggs's somewhat stern
expression of face grew incredulous.
Having served Mr. Kingsley
so long, under conditions so
peculiar, she was accustomed to
take—and was allowed—liberties of
speech which would have been
sternly forbidden any other person
outside the circle of kinship.

"The family!" said she.  "You—they—why,
there won't more'n
half of them come.  Your brother
Sylvester and your brother Samuel——"

"I understand about Sylvester
and Samuel.  That is why I want
a Christmas house-party."

"Your sister Clara and your
sister Isabel——"

"That was not serious.  They
must be quite over it by now."

"Not over it at all.  It's worse.
I happen to know what they said to
each other the last time they were
here.  Your sister Clara said——"

"Never mind, Mrs. Griggs.  We
must surely get them here.  The
others are certainly on the best of
terms."

Mrs. Griggs pursed her lips.  "I
guess you've forgotten, Mr. Stephen
about that old fuss between
George's family and William's.
They've never been the same since.
There's a coolness——"

"We will warm it up.  Coolness
can't exist in the Christmas warmth.
If you feel that you can tuck
everybody away somewhere——"

"Mr. Stephen"—Mrs. Griggs's
tone was a trifle indignant—"there's
eleven sleeping-rooms in
this house."

"Are there?  I had forgotten.  I
haven't been upstairs in—twenty
years.  I can't quite remember
whether there are fireplaces in them all."

"All but two—and they have
Franklin stoves."

"Have Israel fill all the wood-boxes,
Mrs. Griggs.  Send him to
the woods for ground-pine.  I will
order holly from the city.  Tell
Mary and Hannah to begin cooking
and baking.  But I must write
my invitations.  It's three weeks
yet to Christmas.  Plenty of time
to plan.  Please hand me my
writing materials, Mrs. Griggs."

"Mr. Stephen"—the housekeeper's
hand lingered on the leather
tablet without taking it from the
desk across the room—"do you
think you'd better try to write all
those letters to-day?  There's
considerable many of the family
and—you didn't sleep much last night."

"Didn't I?  I shall sleep better
to-night, Mrs. Griggs, if the letters
are posted.  Let me get them off
my mind."

Reluctantly she gave him the
tablet and his fountain-pen.  Then
she propped him up among his
pillows and lighted a reading-lamp at
his elbow; the day was dull and his
eyesight not of the keenest—his
physical eyesight.  The spiritual
vision reached far and away, quite
out of the world altogether.

.. vspace:: 2

The letters went out.  With five
of them went five others, appendices
in the hand of Mrs. Griggs.

At Samuel Kingsley's breakfast-table,
twenty-four hours later, letter
and appendix produced their effect.
But due credit must certainly be
given to the appendix.  Mr. Stephen
Kingsley's letter read thus:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Dear Samuel:*

.. vspace:: 1

"I am thinking of having a Christmas
house-party.  It seems a long time since
I have seen the family all together.
There are at least three new babies
among the children.  I am asking
everybody to come on the day before
Christmas—Wednesday—and remain over
at least until Friday.  Don't refuse me.
I should write much more, but must send
word to all the others, and you know my
eyes.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Believe me always
       "Lovingly your brother,
           STEPHEN."

.. vspace:: 2

"Sylvester will be there," was
Samuel's comment.  He closed his
lips tight as he said it.  They were
firm-set lips beneath a
close-trimmed gray moustache.  He
squared his broad shoulders.
"Sylvester will be there—*and I won't*!"
his keen, brown eyes added.

Then he opened the appendix.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Respected Sir and Friend*," began
Mrs. Griggs with dignity, "I take my
pen in hand to send you a line in regard
to Mr. Stephen's letter, hoping this finds
you well and will reach you by the same
mail.  I hope you and Mrs. Samuel and
the family will come as Mr. Stephen
wishes, as he has set his mind on having
this party, which I think is too much for
him, but he will do it.  Mr. Stephen is
not as strong as he was.  Hoping you
will come.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   Respectfully yours,
       "SARAH A. GRIGGS."

.. vspace:: 2

It could hardly be said that
Mrs. Griggs's language possessed to a
greater degree than Mr. Kingsley's
the quality of persuasion.  But one
sentence in her letter, together
with the fact that she had
considered it a matter which called
upon her to take her unaccustomed
pen in hand at all, gave weight to
the invitation.  Mr. Samuel Kingsley
handed both letters across the
table to his wife, with the curt
comment that it was a confounded
nuisance, and he didn't see what
had got into Stephen's head, but
he supposed they'd have to consider it.

The other letters met with varied
receptions.  To all they were a
surprise, for Stephen lived well out
of town and had been a recluse for
so long that nobody was in the
habit of taking him much into
consideration when it came to affairs
social.  There could be no
question that he was well beloved by
every member of his family, and
sincerely pitied—when they took
time to think about it, which was
not often.  But, except for brief,
infrequent visits at his quiet home,
inspired by a sense of duty, few of
them felt him in their lives at all.

It interfered decidedly with
previous plans, but nobody was quite
willing to refuse the invitation—certainly
not those to whom Mrs. Griggs,
with shrewd grasp of various
situations, had ventured to
indite her supplementary lines.  To
each of these her appeal on the
score of Mr. Stephen's failing health
came as a sting to action and turned
the scale.  More or less grudgingly,
they all wrote that they would
come.  But not without mental
reservations as to courses of
procedure when on the spot.  George's
family need not be familiar with
William's.  Clara and Isabel would
avoid each other all that it was
possible to do without attracting the
notice of a certain pair of mild blue
eyes beneath a crown of thick white
hair.  And Samuel and Sylvester—would
Samuel and Sylvester
even so much as shake hands?
Those who knew them best doubted it.

But the children were all glad
to go.  Family quarrels mattered
nothing to then.  And in the
children lay Stephen's hope.

.. vspace:: 2

The house was ready.  Dignified,
even stately, with its tall
pillars and lines of fine proportion,
representing the best of the
architecture of New England's early
days, Stephen Kingsley's country
home stood awaiting its guests.
Far back from the road, its wide
front entrance was festooned with
hemlock and pine, a stout young
tree fastened upon either side.  The
long-closed blinds of the upper
story were all thrown wide; from
each square chimney floated a
welcoming banner of smoke.  Passers-by
upon the road that morning, on
their way to family reunions of
their own, gazed and wondered.
It was many a long day since "the
old Kingsley place" had worn that
hospitable air of habitation.

Inside, activity reigned from
cellar to roof-tree—the activity
which is the fine flower of many
previous days of preparation.
Speaking of flowers, they were
everywhere.  It would seem as if
Mr. Kingsley's orders must have
stripped the nearest city of scarlet
carnations, so lavishly were they
combined with the holly and
ground-pine of the decorations.
Every guest-room smiled with a big
bunch of them, reflected cheerily
from quaint old mirrors above low
dressing-tables.  Downstairs they
glowed even from obscure corners,
lighting up the severely decorous
order of the rooms into a vivid
suggestion of festivities to come.  One
big bloom, broken from its stem,
had been picked up by Hannah,
the cook, and now, tucked securely
into her tightly braided black hair,
burned hardly more brightly than
her cheeks, flushed as they were
with excitement and haste.

"It's the cookin' for so many
that upsets me," she averred,
standing with Mary, the waitress,
before a pile of plates and trying
to estimate how many would be
needed of that particular size.  "I
was brought up in a big fam'ly
myself, but livin' so long in this
quiet house and cookin' for one
who doesn't eat what a baby would,
has made me forget."

"But you wouldn't take the help
he said he'd get for you," Mary reminded her.

"To be sure I wouldn't," Hannah
cried, hotly.  "After workin'
for him all these years and gettin'
such wages as he pays, would I see
another come in and do for him
when he has comp'ny—for once
in his life?  Not even from
Mrs. Griggs would I take help with the
cookin' and bakin'—not that she'd
offer it.  And I guess we've enough
in the butt'ry, come there never
so many extrys."

"I guess we have," Mary agreed
proudly, with a glance into the
stone-floored buttery, where the
ample shelves were laden with food
until one might well wonder if they
were stoutly enough built to carry
such a load.  "There's nothin'
stingy about him.  You should see
the chambers, Hannah.  There's
been fires burnin' in every one of
the fireplaces since day before
yesterd'y, because he was afraid
the rooms would be damp, shut up
so long.  Isr'el's watched 'em like
babies, too, thinkin' they might be
a chimley catch fire....  And
the sheets, Hannah, that
Mrs. Griggs has brought out from the
linen-closet that she always keeps
locked so careful!  What such an
old bachelor ever wanted of so
many sheets——"

"They was his mother's before
him," Hannah explained.  She
hurried away as she spoke, a towering
pile of gold-banded plates in
her capable hands.  "With the
fam'ly she had—and not all of
them livin' now to come here
to-day—she had need of a plenty of
sheets, and fine ones they was, at
that.  Mrs. Griggs knows just how
many there is of 'em, too, I can tell
you.  One would think they was
her own, she's that——"

The appearance of the housekeeper's
face in the doorway hushed
the talk in the kitchen.
Mrs. Griggs bore a message from
Mr. Stephen, and to Mr. Stephen she
presently returned.  With all her
cares on this supreme morning,
Mrs. Griggs's greatest solicitude was for
her master.  Not that she ever
thought of him by that title.  If
he had been her elder brother she
could not have felt herself more of
a sister to him, nor could she have
been more anxious lest his
wilfulness in the matter of the
house-party prove too much for his frail
strength.  She had insisted with a
firm hand that he remain in bed
until the latest possible moment,
and now that, an hour before
train-time, she allowed him to get up,
it was still to refuse him the trip
he wanted, in his invalid chair,
about the lower rooms, to see that
all was as he could wish.

"You know very well," said she,
"that I've not worked for three
weeks getting ready, for nothing.
Everything's perfect, if I do say it.
You can trust me.  And there's no
use using up what little gimp you've got."

This was indisputable.  "I
suppose I haven't much 'gimp,'"
Mr. Kingsley admitted, with his patient
smile, "though I really feel as if
I were possessed of a trifle more
than usual, this morning, Mrs. Griggs."

"'Tisn't reliable," his house-keeper
responded with conviction.
"It's merely excitement, Mr. Stephen,
and it's likely to leave
you flatter than ever if you go to
counting on it."

This also being highly probable,
Mr. Kingsley submitted to her
judgment, and in his own
sitting-room, a large and comfortable
apartment, across the wide hall
from the more formal parlour,
awaited his guests, himself in as
festal array as he could compass.
Instead of his usual dressing-gown
he wore a frock-coat, of somewhat
old-fashioned cut but of irreproachable
freshness.  (Mrs. Griggs had a
method of her own for insuring the
integrity of garments laid away, a
method which endued them with
no unpleasant preservative odours.)  In
his buttonhole gleamed a sprig
of glossy holly, rich with berries—his
hands trembled a little as he
adjusted it.  Unquestionably it
was an exciting morning for
Mr. Stephen Kingsley; he had need, as
Mrs. Griggs had sagely urged, to
conserve all his energies for the
drafts that were to be made upon them.

From his window he watched
Israel, his reliable man-of-all work,
drive off with the old family
carriage and horses to the village
station, two miles away, to meet the
morning train, on which part of his
guests were due.  Others would come
by trolley, still others, the most
prosperous of the family, by private
motor conveyance of their own,
from the city, thirty miles away.

And now, in due time, the first
of his Christmas guests were at
his door, and Mrs. Griggs, wearing
her best black-henrietta gown, her
shoulders well thrown back and an
expression of great dignity upon
her face, was ushering them in.

.. vspace:: 2

Clara—Mrs. Pierce Wendell—caught sight of
Isabel—Mrs. James Dent—before she was fairly
inside brother Stephen's doors.
Clara was fair and fine and
impressive in elaborate widow's
mourning and an air of haughtiness which
became decidedly more pronounced
at sight of her sister Isabel.
Mrs. Dent was tall and thin, and very
quietly, almost austerely, dressed.
The one lived in town, the other in
the country.  But just why these
differences in mere outward
circumstance should have brought
about such a breach of feeling that
they could barely greet each other
with courtesy was a subject to
which the elder brother, who
awaited them in his own room, had
given much thought.

But he did not attempt to force
matters.  When Isabel, standing
beside his chair, nodded coolly at
Clara as she approached, and then
moved immediately away without
further greeting, Stephen took no
notice.  If they could have seen,
his eyes took on a certain peculiar
deeper shadowing which meant
that his heart was intimately
concerned with the matter of the
sisterly estrangement.  But his
welcoming smile as he greeted Clara
was as bright as the one he had
lately turned upon Isabel, and the
questions concerning her welfare
with which he detained her showed
as brotherly an interest as if he had
not been quite sure within himself
that Clara was the offender most
deeply at fault.

The Christmas guests arrived in
instalments.  By noon George's
and William's families had come—on
the same train, although each
had taken pains to ascertain that
the other was likely to await a later
hour.  At three in the afternoon
Sylvester and Mrs. Sylvester had
pulled up in a big, shiny brown
limousine, accompanied by
Mrs. Sylvester's maid, and driven by a
chauffeur swathed in furs to the
tip of his nose, as were also
Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester.  There were
no children; it was the one childless
branch of the family.

"Seems as if they might have
brought somebody else in that
great traveling opera-box,"
declared Mrs. George to Mrs. Clara
from the library window.  "They
came straight by our house if they
came the Williamsville road, as
I've no doubt they did.  That
machine will hold seven.  I
shouldn't say it to Stephen, but it
looks to me as if the more money
Sylvester makes the closer he gets."

"That's *her* fault," responded
Clara, watching between the
curtains as her brother Sylvester's
wife, in furs which cost several
times the amount of Mrs. Clara's
own, came somewhat languidly up
the walk.  "She's getting so
exclusive she's likely to cut Sylvester's
family at almost any time.  Since
the trouble between Sylvester and
Samuel——"

"I heard through Matilda that
they barely speak now," whispered
Mrs. George hurriedly.  The
library had been invaded with a
rush by seven children and a
dog—the dog, Uncle Stephen's old Fido,
nearly out of his head with
excitement over the unexpected advent
of such an army of playfellows.

"I think it's extremely improbable
that Samuel will come at all,"
Mrs. Clara whispered back.
"Mrs. Griggs admitted to me just now
that it was Samuel who called her
up over the 'phone.  'We expect
them *all*!'—that's what she was
saying.  She tried to put me off
with the notion that he was
inquiring if the children were all
here—something about presents for
them—you know how generous Samuel
always is with the children.  But
I've no doubt at all he wanted to
know if Sylvester was expected.
I shall be very much surprised if we
see Samuel."

The five-o'clock train brought
James Dent, Isabel's husband, and
James Dent, Junior; several young
people of the house of Lucas, whose
mother—Marian Kingsley—was
not living; and the children of
Samuel, assorted ages, and
accompanied by a nurse.  The eldest of
them, Anne, explained that her
father and mother were coming in
the roadster.

Mrs. Clara looked at Mrs. George.
If she had shrieked at her
she could not have said more
plainly: "You'll see!  The car will
break down, they will *not* come
to-night.  Else why didn't they come
on the train with the children?"

.. vspace:: 2

James Dent, Junior, was the
last of the evening arrivals to
approach his Uncle Stephen's chair.
This was not from any lack of
desire to greet his host, but because
the instant he put his round,
smiling face inside the door, he was set
upon by fourteen children—this
was their number now—and the
dog, and pulled hither and yon and
shouted at and barked at and
generally given a rousing welcome.  He
deserved it.  If ever Stevenson's
description of the entrance of a
happy man into a room fitted
anybody it fitted James Dent, Junior.

It was, indeed, "as though
another candle had been lighted,"
although in this young man's case
a dozen candles could not have
made so great a difference.  And
if it would be understood how
impossible it was for anybody not to
like Jim Dent it is only necessary
to say that when he—the son of
Isabel—reached Aunt Clara and
kissed her heartily on her fair cheek
she did not repulse him.  Repulse
him?  One might as well try to
repulse a summer breeze!

"Clear a space, all of you!"
commanded James Dent, Junior.
"I want a chance at Uncle Stephen.
Be off!  I'll not speak to any of
you again till I've had ten minutes
alone with him.  Why, I haven't
seen him for a month."

A month!  Few of the others
had seen him for a year.  But the
young man's tone expressed such
hungry anticipation of a talk with
the uncle whom he had not seen for
a month that everybody obediently
cleared out and left the two together.

Then Jim Dent sat down close
beside the invalid's chair and
looked straight into his uncle's
gentle blue eyes with his own very
brilliant blue ones—and,
somehow, for all of the difference
between them there was a look of the
uncle about the nephew.  The
well-knit, sturdy young hand gripped
the thin old one and held it close,
and the smile the two exchanged
had in it love and welcome and
understanding.

"Well, you've got them all here,"
exulted Jim Dent.  "Nobody but
you could have done it.  Uncle
Sam's coming, Anne says.  That's
great, Uncle Stephen!"

"I am confidently expecting
Samuel," responded the elder man.
"How it will turn out I hardly dare
think.  They may not speak
to-night.  This is only Christmas
Eve.  But to-morrow, Jim, is
Christmas Day!"

"Yes, to-morrow's Christmas
Day, Uncle Steve."

"Can brothers refuse to speak—on
Christmas Day, Jim?"

"I don't believe they can—under
your roof, Uncle Steve."

"My roof, boy!  Under God's roof!"

"It's pretty nearly the same
thing," murmured Jim Dent, not
irreverently.

"I may need your help, Jim."

"Sheep-dog—to bark at their
heels and run them into the same
pasture?"

Uncle Stephen smiled.  His eyes
and Jim's met with a twinkle.

"Just about that, perhaps," he
admitted.  "I can't tell yet.  But
keep your eyes open."

"I'll stand by," agreed his
nephew.  "It's a good thing the
kiddies are here, Uncle Steve.
When I came in Uncle George's
children and Uncle William's were
keeping more or less in separate
squads, but the minute they pitched
on to me the whole bunch were so
tangled up I don't think they'll
ever get untangled again.  I had a
glance at the fathers and mothers.
Their faces were worth coming to see."

Mr. Kingsley looked at Jim
earnestly.  "I'm counting on the
children, boy," said he.

"When it comes to a general
mix-up," replied Jim Dent, "you
can count on the youngsters every
time."

.. vspace:: 2

The gray roadster belonging to
Mr. Samuel Kingsley ran swiftly
and silently through the gateway
and up to the side entrance of
his brother Stephen's home.
Mrs. Samuel sat beside her husband; a
sharp-eyed mechanician rode in
the rumble behind.

"How long, Evans?" inquired
Mr. Kingsley as the machine came
to a standstill.

"Forty-two minutes, sir.  That's
pretty good time over these icy
roads."

"I should say so.  Came as fast
as if I wanted to come," muttered
the man of affairs, with his hand
under his wife's arm to escort her
up the steps.  "As fast as if I
wouldn't rather be hung, drawn
and quartered than meet that
skinflint Sylv—"

"Sam!"  Mrs. Sam pressed his
hand with her plump arm against
her side.  "Please be civil to
Sylvester for Stephen's sake and the
children's.  Don't let him or them
see signs of the quarrel—not at
Christmas, dear."

"I won't shake hands with him,"
growled Samuel.  "Not with
Stephen himself looking on."

"Yes, you will, dear, on Christmas
Eve," whispered Mrs. Sam.

By which it may be seen that the
mothers of many children have
large hearts, and that Mr. Stephen
Kingsley had with him one more
ally than he knew.

Although Mr. Samuel Kingsley
may have infinitely preferred,
according to his own declaration, to
be hung, drawn and quartered than
to enter the great, old-fashioned
doorway within which somewhere
awaited him an encounter with one
of his own flesh and blood, nobody
would have guessed it from his
demeanour.  Long training in
what James Dent, Junior, mentally
characterized, as he watched Uncle
Samuel make his entrance, as the
art of bluffing—acquired by men
of prominence in the world
everywhere—enabled that gentleman
to appear upon the scene with an
expression of affability mingled
with pleasure on his handsome
countenance, and his accustomed
bearing of dignity and distinction
well in evidence.  As it happened,
Mr. Sylvester Kingsley was at the
moment close by his brother
Stephen's side, although he had by no
means intended to be there when
his brother Samuel should arrive.
How this happened it is possible
that only the "sheep-dog" could
have told.

"Samuel, this is giving me great
happiness," said Stephen, and held
his brother's strong hand for a
moment in both his weak ones.
Then he looked at Sylvester, who
was on his farther side.  Samuel
also looked at Sylvester.  Sylvester
looked back at Samuel.  Blades
of steel could not have crossed with
a sharper clang.

"How are you, Sylvester?"
inquired Samuel, and his glance
dropped to Sylvester's chin as he
said it.  His hand remained in
Stephen's, where it received a weak
pressure, a quite involuntary one,
born of anxiety.

"How are you, Samuel?" inquired
Sylvester in return, and his
glance lowered to the expensive
scarfpin in Samuel's neckwear.

Jim Dent said "Good heavens!"
somewhere inside of him, and the
incident was closed by his uncle
Sylvester's rising and walking away
out of the room.  The brothers
had spoken—if this were speech.
They had not shaken hands.  An
apprehending onlooker, betting
on the probabilities, would have
staked a considerable sum on the
proposition that they would not
shake hands within the next
twenty-four hours—or twenty-four
years.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, well—here's Anne!"
cried Jim Dent joyfully.  He had
been looking about him for first-aid
to his uncle Stephen's wounded
heart.  Anne was no longer of the
group of children who were
accustomed to leap upon Cousin Jim
and demand instant sport with
him.  Anne, being now eighteen,
and lately returned from a
two-years' absence at a boarding-school
somewhere abroad, had allowed
James Dent, Junior, to be in the
house for a full half-hour before she
emerged from some upstairs
retreat and came to greet him.
Being Mrs. Sam's eldest daughter
she was naturally extraordinarily
pretty, looking much as her mother
had looked twenty years before.
As Mrs. Sam was still a beauty,
and as she was his favourite aunt—by
marriage—it will be easy to
imagine that when her nephew James
had greeted her he had not failed to
inquire for Anne.  Still, he had had
no possible idea that the change in
Anne was going to be so great.

Anne held out her hand with a
delightful smile.  But Jim Dent
would have none of such a sudden
accession of reserve, and promptly
kissed her, as of old.  Whereupon
her colour, always interesting to
observe, became even more
attractive, though she only said,
reproachfully:

"Don't you see I'm grown up,
Cousin Jim?"

Cousin Jim looked her over, from
the crown of her charming dark
head to the tips of her modishly
shod little feet.  "Bless your heart,
so you are!" he exclaimed.  "But
will you tell me what that has to do
with it?"

"Everything.  I no longer can
be kissed as a matter-of-course,"
declared Miss Anne Kingsley.
"Only by special dispensation."

"Well, what do I think of that?"
he demanded.  "Sure, an' I don't
know what I think!  Still, as I
see plenty of mistletoe about"—he
had only to reach up a sinewy
arm to secure a piece—"I can
easily obtain that special dispensation."

Whereupon he kissed her again,
and with appreciably more fervour
than before, having discovered,
between the first kiss and the second,
that Anne, grown up, was
unquestionably more alluring than Anne
as he had last seen her, although he
remembered that even then he had
had premonitions as to her future
which he was now not at all surprised
to find had been well founded.

Feeling that nothing could be
better for that heavy heart of his
uncle Stephen's than the application
of such balm as lay in a girl's
sweetness, Jim Dent conducted his
adorable cousin in to spend the next
half-hour beside the invalid's chair.
In this act he showed the difference
between himself and the average
young man—between the sheep-dog,
so to speak, always under the
sway of a sense of duty to send
his charges where they belong, and
the sportive terrier, who thinks of
nothing but his own diversion.  It
must be acknowledged, however,
lest this young man be thought
quite unnaturally altruistic, that he
himself shared with his cousin
Anne the pleasant task of making
a dear and gentle elderly man
forget for a time the load upon his
breast, and that the pair of them,
while they made merry for the
benefit of Uncle Stephen, also
laughed into each other's eyes
quite as often as they did into his.
Which, of course, gave him fully as
much pleasure as it did themselves.

.. vspace:: 2

"Mother," said Jim Dent in a
corner somewhere, "why not take a
day off from the fuss and show
Aunt Clara how to narrow, or
widen, or double up, or whatever
she seems to be trying to do, on
that pink silk thing she's knitting?
It's Christmas Eve, and she's finishing
it up to give to Uncle Sam's
baby, and she's all balled up.  She
never knit socks before.  Somebody
else helped her on the other one."

"James," said his mother sternly,
but not as sternly as she might
have spoken if her son's lips had
not lightly kissed her ear before
they murmured these words into it,
"it is impossible to ignore your
aunt's manner to me."

"It's not so awfully different,
though, mother, from your manner
to her.  Still, let's see, how did the
thing begin?" mused Jim.  "She
wrote that they'd all come out in
July for a month, and you wrote back——"

"I said the simple truth, James,
that my kitchen was quite as hot in
the country as hers in the city, in
July."

"It certainly was the simple
truth, mother.  Somewhat undecorated
by a garnish of hospitality,
though—eh?"

"I had not accepted your aunt's
invitations to visit her in town in
the winter."

"You'd had 'em, though.  Don't
unaccepted invitations count any?"

Isabel Dent stirred in her chair.
"She had visited me time and again
without invitation."

"How far back did all this
happen?  When I was in my cradle?
I've forgotten."

"It was seven years ago last July."

"Seven years outlaws an unpaid
account.  Let's start another.  I'll
back you up if you'll go over and
offer to fix up that sock.  If you
do, the late unpleasantness will fix
itself up.  It's just as easy as that.
And—Uncle Steve wants it."

"James," his mother's tone was
firm, "if your Aunt Clara comes to
me I will not repulse her."

"She won't come.  You said the
last hard word."

"James!"

"All right," said Jim Dent with
apparent resignation.  "But even
enemies declare a truce—on
Christmas Eve."

Then two small boys and four
girls of various sizes romped into
the corner after him and he went
away with them.  It was difficult
to do otherwise, with all six twined
about his arms and pulling lustily.

.. vspace:: 2

"'*He that loveth not his brother
whom he hath seen, how can he
love God whom he hath not seen?*'"

Stephen spoke the words thoughtfully.

"Steve," said Samuel, with a
flushing face, "it's a mighty sight
easier to love a God a fellow hasn't
seen than some men he has seen.
Whatever the Almighty is He's
square.  Sylvester isn't."

"Sam," said Stephen gently, yet
with a quiet firmness which made
Samuel look at him curiously,
"are you absolutely certain
Sylvester was not square?  Admitting
that his methods were peculiar,
annoying, without seeming reason
or justification, are you sure they
were not square?"

"I'm as confident he meant to
deceive me as I sit here."

"But do you *know* it?  Could
you prove it in a court of law?"

Samuel hesitated.  That was a
question not to be answered quite
so easily.  "I believe I could."

"But you don't *know* you could?"

"Great Cæsar, Steve, I'm not
omnipotent.  I don't *know* I could.
But——"

"Then there is a possibility—just
a possibility—that you might
be mistaken in your judgment of
Sylvester."

"If there is it's so small that—"

"The smaller it is the more
danger of losing sight of it.  Yet,
if it exists——"

Samuel rose abruptly.  "See
here, brother," he said with an
effort to command his usual
manner, "why not let well enough
alone?  I've treated Sylvester
civilly here under your roof.
What more can you ask?  What's
the use of stirring up strife on
Christmas Day?"

"Am I trying to stir up strife?"
breathed Stephen Kingsley, his
delicate face turning even a shade
paler than was its wont.  "I—Sam,
I'd give my right hand—not
that it's worth much—to see strife
end between you and Syl, here—on
Christmas Day....  *What
was that, Sam?  What was that?*"

Samuel ran heavily to the door,
opened it, looked out, glanced
back, then rushed through and
shut the door sharply on the outside.

"O, Lord, dear Lord, not any
of the children, on Christmas Day!"
pleaded a low voice inside.

.. vspace:: 2

It was Jim Dent who had
reached young Syl first when he
fell through the well from the
third story to the first of Uncle
Stephen's spacious old halls.  Young
Syl, Samuel's twelve-year-old son,
named for his Uncle Sylvester at a
period when the brothers had been
business partners and close friends,
had been having a lively scuffle
with his cousin Harold, Uncle
George's fourteen-year-old athlete.
The set-to had raged all over the
house, had reached the third story,
and had arrived at a point where
any means for either to get the
better of the other had prevailed.
Harold had succeeded in forcing
his adversary into a position where
he could throw him, after some
schoolboy method, and, blinded by
the excitement of the affair, had
not realized just where he was.
He had thrown Syl with such
success that the younger boy had lost
his clutch upon his antagonist and
had gone over the low rail before
Harold knew what had happened.

"Keep cool!" was Jim's first
command, learned in many an
emergency on school and college
athletic fields.  "A boy can stand
a lot, and he landed on the rug."

They tried hard to obey him.
His mother succeeded best, his
father least.  Samuel Kingsley
could not wait to see his boy return
to consciousness, could not wait
after he had summoned a physician—two
physicians—by telephone,
but must needs rush out to get the
gray roadster, with its sixty-horse-power
cylinders, declaring that he
would meet Graham on the way.
Graham ran only a turtle of a
forty-horsepower machine and would
never get there.

His mechanician, Evans, was not
on the ground.  He, with Ledds,
Sylvester's chauffeur, had gone off
on some Christmasing of their own.
With hands that trembled Samuel
got his motor throbbing—it took
time, because of the stiffening cold
of all the mechanism.  Then he
leaped into his car.

"Better take time to put on your
coat and gloves," said a voice behind
him.  "You'll drive faster, warm."

His brother Sylvester climbed in
beside him, himself in fur-lined
garments.  He held Samuel's coat
for him, and handed his brother the
heavy motoring gloves of which
Samuel had not stopped to think.

"I'll look out where you back;
let her go," commanded Sylvester,
and Samuel backed his car out of
the narrow space where it had stood
between Sylvester's big brown
limousine and Stephen's modest
phaëton.  Samuel used care until
he had made the curves from barn
to road, between trees and hedges
and the brown remains of a garden,
out through the old stone-posted
gateway.  Then, with a straight
turnpike road before him and the
city only twenty miles away,
Samuel opened his throttle.  The slim,
powerful machine, its exhaust,
unmuffled, roaring a deep note of
power, shot away down the road
like the wind.

.. vspace:: 2

At a window inside Mr. William
Kingsley was watching excitedly.
A tall figure of the general proportions
of his sister Isabel's husband,
James Dent, was at his elbow.
"By George!" he ejaculated, "Syl's
gone with Sam!"

Mr. George Kingsley, partially
deaf, caught his own first name.
"What's that, Will?" he responded
eagerly.

William wheeled and saw whom
he was addressing.  George, his
anxious eyes peering down the road,
was plainly not thinking of family
quarrels.  Why should anybody
think of family quarrels with Sam's
young Syl lying upstairs looking as
if the life had been knocked out of
him by that terrific fall?  William
found himself unable to answer this
question.

"Sylvester's gone with Sam after
Doctor Graham," he announced in
George's interrogative best ear.

"You don't say!" responded
George.  "Well, it's a good thing."

It certainly was.  Not a member
of the family but would admit
that.  Also, if it was a good thing
for Sylvester and Sam to tear down
the road together in a sixty-horse-power
car, after a quarrel the
proportions of which anybody must
concede were far more serious than
those of the difficulty between
George and William, it would seem
rather forced, at least until the
truth was known about young Syl,
for two other brothers looking out
of the same window to cling to
outward signs of estrangement.

"Sam's got an extremely powerful
machine," observed William,
continuing to gaze down the road,
though the aforesaid machine was
already probably a mile away and
far out of sight.

"I guess he has.  Must go faster
than Sylvester's, I should say."

"Sylvester's isn't made so much
for speed as for getting about the
city warm and comfortable for his
wife.  Syl's not much on speed, as
I remember.  Shouldn't wonder if
Sam's pace going to meet the
doctor would make Syl hang on some."

"It's Sam's boy," said George
in a lower tone.

"So it is," agreed William.
"Couldn't blame him if he took
some chances.  Don't know as
he'll get Graham here more'n five
minutes quicker'n he could get
here with his own car, but it'll
relieve the strain for Sam a little to
be doing something."

"That's so," admitted George.

At this moment Harold, George's
boy, with a pale, frightened face
and a pair of very red eyes, came
into the room and up to his father.
He had no eyes for his Uncle
William standing half within the long,
crimson folds of the library curtains.

"Dad," said the boy, "did you
know I——"

"Eh?" said his father, turning
his best ear.  Then he saw his son's
face.  "Why, what's the matter?"
he asked anxiously.  "Is Syl——"

"Dad," burst out the boy, "I—I
was the one that did it.  *I—threw—Syl!*"

He buried his head against his
father's arm.

"Why, Harry—Harry, boy——"
began his father in consternation.

Uncle William came out from
behind the curtain.  He thought
he had better get out of the
room.  But as he passed Harold
his hand patted the young head.
He stooped to the boy's ear.  "We
all know it was an accident," he
whispered.

.. vspace:: 2

A nursemaid knocked upon the
door of Mr. Stephen Kingsley's
room.  In her arms was Mrs. Sam's
baby, the prettiest baby of
the three who were in the house.

"Mr. Kingsley," said the maid,
"Mr. Dent—the young man—said
I should bring Dorothy to you
and ask you to take care of her for
a little while, if you didn't mind.
He has something for me to do."

"Yes, yes—yes, yes," answered
the invalid.  "I'll keep her."  He
reached out his arms.  "How is the
boy now, do you know?" he asked.
He had had a bulletin within the
last five minutes, but minutes go
slowly under suspense.

"They think he may not be
badly hurt, sir," said the maid.

But this was what they had told
him from the beginning.  He felt
that they could not know.  They
were afraid to alarm him.  Fall so
far and not be badly hurt?  It was
not possible.

He took the baby, and laid his
white cheek against hers of rose-leaf
pink.  So Jim had sent him the
baby to take up his mind.  Was
there anything Jim didn't think of?
And one certainly cannot look after
an eight-months-old baby and not
give the matter considerable attention.

Young Sylvester Kingsley, Samuel's
son, opened his eyes.  The first
thing he saw was his mother's face,
which smiled at him.  Mothers can
always smile, if necessary, thank
God!  The next thing noticeable was
his Cousin Jim's bright blue eyes
looking rather brighter than usual.
He heard a caught breath
somewhere near and then a whisper:
"Sh-h—don't startle him!"  It
sounded like his Aunt Clara's
rather sibilant whisper.  Aunt
Clara had the tiniest sort of a lisp.
There was a strong smell of
camphor in the air, and Syl's
forehead seemed to be oppressed by
something heavy and cold.  He
attempted to put up his hand to his
head, but the thing didn't work,
somehow.  He was conscious that
his arm hurt, besides.  He didn't
feel exactly like speaking, so he
stared questioningly into his Cousin
Jim's face.

"All right, old man," replied
Cousin Jim instantly, in a quiet,
cheerful sort of way which was
most reassuring.  "You've had a
bit of a knockout, but we'll soon
have you fixed up.  Yes, I know
that arm hurts—that'll be all
right presently."

.. vspace:: 2

Out in the upper hall Aunt Clara,
who had crept out of the room lest
the relief of seeing the lad alive,
and the wonder of watching Syl's
mother smile at her boy like that,
should make the sob in her own
throat burst out, ran blindly into a
figure at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, he's come to!" she whispered loudly.

"He has?  Thank the Lord!"
came back in another joyful whisper.
"But he must be awfully hurt,
just the same.  We can't know till
the doctors come.  Don't you
suppose it must be time for them now?"

"I don't know.  Who's with him?"

"His mother and that angel
Jim.  I never saw anybody like
Jim Dent.  He's the dearest fellow,
so cool and cheerful, thinks of
everything and everybody.  No
wonder Stephen adores him."

"Thank you, Clara," whispered
the other woman.  Clara hastily
wiped her eyes.  The hall was dim
and her eyes had been thick with
tears.  She had been exchanging
whispers with Isabel.

It didn't matter.  She was glad
of it.  The mother of Jim Dent
deserved recognition, if she had said
her kitchen was hot in summer.
Clara put out her arms.  Isabel came
into them.  Clara's plump cheek
touched Isabel's thin shoulder.
Isabel's hand patted Clara's back.
Jim Dent opened the door.  Seeing
the affair outside he closed it again
and went to find something he
wanted, by a different exit.  His
anxiety was still great, but a side
issue like this one must not be upset.

But by the second exit he found
somebody else in his path.  All the
beautiful colour shaken out of her
cheeks, her dark eyes wide with
alarm, her lips pressed tight together
in her effort at self-control,
young Syl's sister, Anne, caught at
Jim Dent's capable, blue-serge arm.
She said not a word, but he
answered her as if she had spoken:

"He's opened his eyes, dear.
That means a good deal, I'm sure.
Keep cool."

"If I could only *do* something!"

"You can—what we're all doing."

"Oh, *yes*!" breathed little Anne.
"O Jim!—do you think it helps—really?"

"Know it," asserted Jim Dent,
as confidently as he had ever said
anything in his life.  He smiled at
her and hurried on.  That smile of
his had been known to win games
for his college teams which had
been all but lost—why shouldn't
it cheer a frightened girl and
encourage her to go on doing that one
thing which was the only thing she
could do, and which Jim Dent was
so sure would help?

.. vspace:: 2

The gray roadster came down
the road at a speed which barely
allowed it to slacken in time to
make the curve at the gateway.
It missed the stone post on the left
by the width of a tenpenny nail.
Sylvester, in the rumble, turned
not a hair.  Thirty miles of
driving, with Sam's hand on the
steering-wheel, had brought Sylvester
to a condition of temporary
paralysis as regarded danger.

The three of them were in the
house in less time than it takes to
tell it, Dr. Wilford Graham
propelled by a hand on each arm.  It
would have been difficult for him
to say which of his companions
seemed the more eager to get him
up the stairs.

Samuel opened the door of the
room where he had left young Syl,
his hand shaking on the knob.  A
somewhat feeble but decidedly
cheerful voice greeted him.

"Say, dad, you'll tell me where
I tumbled from, won't you?  The
rest of 'em have got me stung about it."

Samuel turned around to the
doctor behind him.  He pushed
past the doctor and bolted out
into the hall.  He bumped smartly
into his brother Sylvester, who had
stopped to wait just outside the
door.  Sylvester put his hand on
Samuel's shoulder.

"I heard, Sam, I heard," he murmured.

Samuel nodded.  He could not
speak.  There was no particular
need that he should.

Young Syl had a broken arm.
But what is a broken arm, when by
acquiring it one escapes injuring
some vital part of one's body?  He
had, also, a large-sized contusion
on his head, because on the rebound
he had come somewhat forcibly
into contact with the newel-post.
But the contusion was precisely on
the spot specially fortified by
Nature for such emergencies, and
the doctors feared no evil results
from it.

"In short," declared Doctor
Graham with great satisfaction,
"the boy has managed to get out
of his fall easier than many a
football victim who is thrown only
the distance of his own height.  I
won't say that a Turkey carpet
with a leopard-skin rug on top of it
doesn't make a fairly comfortable
bed to fall on.  If it had been one
of our modern bare floors, now!—But
it wasn't."

"Mayn't I have my dinner with
the rest of 'em?" begged Syl.

Dinner!  The Christmas dinner!
They had all forgotten it except
the hero of the day.  "Because
I'm awfully hungry," urged Syl.

.. vspace:: 2

In the deserted hall downstairs
Jim Dent happily encountered
Anne.  He seized her hand.

"Come with me to tell Uncle
Stephen!" he commanded.  "But—stop
crying first!  Uncle Steve's
a pretty wise man, but he can't be
expected to tell the difference
between tears of sorrow and tears of
crazy joy—not at first sight."

"I don't know why I'm crying,"
sobbed Anne, breaking down
completely and burying her face
on the blue-serge shoulder which
conveniently offered itself at the
moment, just as she had done many
times since she was a baby.  Even
when she was eight and Cousin
Jim was fifteen, that shoulder of
his had been one to hide one's
unhappy eyes upon.  "I didn't cry a
drop—till I knew Syl was s-safe!"

"I know.  Queer, isn't it?  It
always works that way.  I confess
I had some difficulty in seeing the
way across the room myself, a few
minutes ago.  But wipe 'em away
and come on!  Uncle Stephen
mustn't have to wait for his news.
Look up here.  Smile!  Here—maybe
this will help——" and
for the third time within twenty-four
hours he stooped and kissed her.

The tremulous lips broke suddenly
into the smile he sued for.
Through the tears shone a sudden
mischievous light.  "Cousin Jim,"
she observed, "you seem to have
changed your methods a good deal.
Always before it was chocolates.
Are you out of chocolates?"

"No, I'm not out of chocolates."
James Dent, Junior put his hand
into his blue-serge pocket and
produced a small box.  "But you're
too old for 'em," he explained, and
put the box back.

He hurried her past the threshold
of Mr. Stephen Kingsley's room.
Across the baby's golden head
Uncle Stephen looked tensely up
at them.  It needed but one look.
Then his nephew sprang forward
and took Anne's baby sister from a
grasp which had grown suddenly
nerveless, and his niece, stooping
over her uncle's chair, gently
patted a white cheek down which the
first tear of relief was slowly trickling.

It seems to "work that way"
with the whole human race.
Except, perhaps, with mothers.
Upstairs, Mrs. Sam sat beside her
boy's bed, and his keen young eyes
saw no tears upon her lovely,
radiant face.  If she cried at all
it was only in her heart—her
happy heart—which ached yet
with the agony of what might have
been—on Christmas Day.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a good thing that the
dining-room in the old house was
a big one.  Mr. Kingsley had
specially decreed that
everybody—everybody—should be seated at
one great table.  There was to be
no compromise effected by having
the children wait for the "second
table"—has any one who has ever
waited for that "second table" at
a family gathering forgotten what
an ordeal it is, or how interminably
long the old folks are about it?
There were twenty-nine of them,
including the three babies, but by
some marvel of arrangement
Mrs. Griggs had managed to make a
place for every one.

"But you'll have to say how
we're to seat them," said
Mrs. Griggs, anxiously invading
Mr. Stephen Kingsley's room.  "With
all our planning we've forgot
that part.  You'd better make me
out a list, so I can lay those holly
cards you've written the names on."

"Bless my soul," murmured
Mr. Kingsley, "must they be specially
arranged?  Of course they must.
I had forgotten.  Clara"—he
turned to his sister who came in
at the moment—"help me with
this, will you?"

"Give me the cards, Mrs. Griggs,"
requested Mrs. Clara capably.
She swept a clear space on
the table at her brother's elbow as
she spoke.

"What's all this?" asked Jim
Dent at the door five minutes later.
"Card games?"

"Do come and help me, Jim,"
cried his aunt.  "I thought this
would be easy, but it's not.  I can't
keep George's and William's families
apart," she explained in a lower
tone.  "There are so many of them."

"Don't try."

"Oh, but I must.  They—you
know that old——"

"It seems to be a thing of the
past.  I met Uncle George's boy
Harold and Uncle William coming
downstairs hand in hand just now.
They'd been up to see Syl together."

"Jim!"  His uncle's face lighted
as if the sunlight had struck it.
"But the fathers?"

Jim put his head out of the door
and took a survey of the room
beyond.  "Sitting on opposite sides
of the fireplace," he announced.

"That's pretty near," admitted
Mr. Kingsley.  "That's certainly
pretty near.  With a fire between
them.  I wonder what——"

"Syl's tumble did it.  It made
the mix-up we were looking for.
Not exactly as we would have
planned it, but rather more
effectively, I should say."

"Stephen," said Mrs. Clara,
moving the cards about in an
absent sort of way, "Stephen and
Jim, I want to tell you
that—well—Isabel and I——"

"Yes," helped Stephen eagerly.

"Good for you!" encouraged her nephew.

"We couldn't seem to keep it
up—not here—on Christmas
Day—after Syl——"  Tears were
suddenly threatening the holly
cards.  Mrs. Clara rose quickly.
"I think they're all right now,
Stephen," she said, indicating the
cards and clearing her eyes with a
touch of a lace-bordered handkerchief.
"I've put Sam and Syl
at the far ends of the table."

"I want them near together."

"But—had you better?"

"I'm going to risk it."

"Risk it, Uncle Steve," advised
Jim.  "Everybody's taking chances
to-day."

"But—Sam and Sylvester!"
persisted Clara doubtfully.

"It's Christmas Day with them,
too," argued Jim.

Mrs. Clara went out with the
cards and laid them down at the
proper places.  She had arranged
them as nearly as possible in
approved dinner style, a man next a
woman, then a boy, then a girl,
then another man, another woman,
and so on.

When she had gone Jim sneaked
out and scrutinized this arrangement.
Laughing to himself he
picked up the cards and juggled
with them.  About his uncle
Stephen he grouped the cards of his
three brothers and their wives.  At
the other end of the table he put all
the children together.

"There, that's better," said Jim
with conviction, to himself.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Griggs announced dinner.
Jim Dent brought Uncle Stephen
out first in his wheel-chair and
placed him at the head of the table.
Then came the rest, Samuel Kingsley
carrying his son Syl, looking
very hero-like indeed, with his
bandaged head and his arm in a sling.
All the children's eyes were riveted
fascinatedly on Syl as he was placed
in a special easy chair at the foot of
the table, where nobody could possibly
by any chance hit the injured arm.

On one side of Mr. Stephen
Kingsley, Mrs. Samuel found her
place; on the other side,
Mrs. Sylvester.  Sylvester was next
Mrs. Sam, Sam beyond Mrs. Syl.
How he dared, every one wondered,
thinking it Uncle Stephen's plan.
Uncle Stephen himself turned a
little pale as he saw them standing
behind their chairs.  Only Jim
Dent, whose wide-awake eyes had
been seeing things all day, felt at
all cool about it.  And even he was
not quite as cool as he looked.

There was a moment's hushed
silence before they sat down, even
the children fluttering into quiet.
Then, just as everybody laid hands
on chairback, Samuel Kingsley spoke.

"Steve," he said, looking at his
brother, "I want to make a little
speech."

Everybody was at attention.
Stephen Kingsley looked up,
wondering.  He smiled at his brother,
but his heart was making riot in his
feeble breast.  What was Sam
going to do?

"I want to say," said Samuel—then
he stopped.  He was an
accomplished after-dinner speaker,
was Samuel Kingsley, but he had
never had a speech to make like
this one.  He had thought he had
it ready on his tongue, but it stuck
in his throat.  He turned and
looked down the table at his boy
Syl.  Syl nodded at him,
comprehending in a boyish way that his
father was having some sort of
difficulty with his speaking
apparatus.  Then Samuel looked at
Mrs. Samuel, who smiled at him.  She
was a little pale yet, but her smile
was bright as ever.  Yet still
Samuel could not make his speech.

.. vspace:: 2

The silence grew tense.  Jim
Dent, leaning forward and watching
his uncle eagerly, felt that it
must be relieved.  He lifted his
glass.  "Here's to Uncle Sam's
speech!" he cried.

The tension broke.  Everybody
laughed—a little agitatedly, and
Uncle Sam's firm lips, under the
close-cut, gray moustache, wavered,
then set themselves.  He looked at
his nephew, and something about
the sympathetic affection in the
bright blue eyes steadied him.

"I'm afraid I can't make it,
after all, Jim," said Samuel.  "But
perhaps I can act it."

And he stretched his hand across
the table toward his brother
Sylvester, who grasped it, as
everybody could see, with a grip that
stung.

Jim Dent's eyes flew to his
Uncle Stephen's face.  He saw it
like that of Saint Stephen's of old,
"*as it had been the face of an angel.*"

.. vspace:: 2

To young Sylvester Kingsley,
hero of the day, was destined to
come still further distinction.  It
was all of a chance observation of
his, made just before his removal
to bed—at the same hour as his
baby sister, much to his disgust.
But, resigning himself to his fate,
as Cousin Jim stooped to bear him
away he gave one last look about
the pleasant, holly-hung room.

Although their elders had kept
as many of the family differences
from their children's ears as was
possible, they had not been able to
forestall the use of the children's
sharp eyes, and the sight Syl now
saw struck him as unusual.  It was
nothing more than the gathering of
five brothers, of varying ages, about
the chair of one of their number,
in front of the great fireplace where
roared and crackled a mighty fire
of logs.  But the expressions of
geniality and cordial interest upon
the five faces indicated such good
fellowship that the young son of
Samuel Kingsley was moved to say
to his cousin Jim:

"What a lot of brothers there
are in this house!  Dad's got four,
and I've three and Harold's two,
and they're all in this room.  This
ought to be called 'Brotherly House.'"

"So it ought," agreed Jim Dent,
smiling at the thought.  "It would
be a fine name, and true, too."

He carried the boy away, and
stopped to tell him a story after he
was in bed—a football story, such
as only Cousin Jim could tell,
because he knew all about it from
the inside.  But when Jim came
back to the fireside he told them of
young Syl's idea.  "And a jolly
idea I call it, don't you?" he added.

Uncle Stephen looked from one
to another of the four men around
him, and saw the assenting smiles
upon their faces—a bit shame-faced,
perhaps, yet genuine.

Samuel Kingsley rose to his feet.
"I could make my speech now,"
he said, with a happy laugh, his
hands shoved well down into his
pockets, where they jingled some
loose change there in a boyish
fashion.  "But I don't want to.
I'm only going to say that as long
as I have a brother in the world
like Stephen Kingsley I'm coming
to see him as often as he'll have me.
And the more of you boys I meet
here the better I'll be
pleased—particularly if the boy I meet here
happens to be—" he glanced,
smiling, across the little
circle—"my brother Syl!"

"Hear, hear!" answered Sylvester
Kingsley's deep voice.

So, to Stephen Kingsley's
intense delight, "*Brotherly House*"
it was—and has been ever since.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

   THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
   GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Printer logo, sample page`:

.. figure:: images/img-090.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Printer logo, sample page

   Printer logo, sample page

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::