“Oh, as to that, sir, that is easily remedied. I be just now on my way to the pass’n to get him to have Mary and me asked next Sunday.”
“Oh, oh! I wish you joy. An excellent girl! There it is for you—the house, Tom; you and Mary shall go into it as soon as I have seen the back of MacSweeny and his Bella, and have had it whitewashed. And—hang it! Tom, here—come round to my study, and I’ll give you a cheque for ten pounds towards the furnishing.”
“I thank you, sir; I thank you with all my heart.”
“No need of thanks, Tom! Bless my soul, when a master has a trustworthy, honest servant, it is he is to be counted lucky; and unless he is an ass he will keep him. There—come round to the study.”
And now nearly two years have passed. And this time we see a little party coming out of the church porch. As I live! it is Tom with Mary—no longer Mauduit, but Mountstephen. But they are not alone; there is a baby in a long white robe being brought forth—a babe that had been carried into church to be christened.
As Mary stood in the autumn sunlight outside the porch, she touched Tom’s arm, and said—
And they went, and the baby was taken there also, over the drooping grass, wet with autumn rains.
“The poor little Christmas tree,” said Mary, “although a Tree of Death, lives. See—how hearty it appears!”
“It is no Tree of Death,” answered Tom. “See—here is the first fir-cone; it is alive, and bears seed. It is no Tree of Death, but a Tree of Life.”
“Mary,” said he, “I think for once in my life I’ve said a good thing.”
“Tom, do you think the little fir-cone really has life in it?”
Mary picked it, and then put it into the tiny hand of the baby.
“Look, Tom,” she said. “But for that Christmas tree you and I would never have become what we are to each other—and now, in it is the seed of life, and so on and on and on for evermore. Our baby has it, and it shall be sown, and so—really, Tom, there seems to be no end to life; it goes on for ever and for ever!”
It is a singular fact, but fact it is, that very little of what may be termed peculiarly Romish superstition lingers among the peasantry of England; this goes far to show how very little hold such superstition had on their minds or hearts. It may be almost said that there is more of pre-Christian paganism, of usages condemned by the Catholic Church surviving, than of any practices recommended by her.