That season
when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and
are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage
wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the
first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the
fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope
and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many,
not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no
mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and the
bells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk
walk, the home endearments were not for Joe--poor Joe. No mother longed
for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to
get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the
hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy!
Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr.
Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state of
his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied
that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had
never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr.
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