Granfer, and One Christmas time

IT was spring. The bright March sun in a cloudless blue sky was shining into the kitchen of Lowercoombe Farm, upon the spotless china on the dresser, the glistening tin ware on the mantelpiece, and the old copper warming pan hanging from its accustomed nail against the wall. The farm-house kitchen was a pleasant place: the stone floor was kept scrupulously clean, and the large deal table was as white as scrubbing could make it, whilst the oak settles by the fire-place and the few chairs placed at equal distances around the room shone with the constant application of 'elbow-grease,' as the housewives call rubbing and polishing. On the hearth burnt a large wood fire, over which in an iron crock simmered a savoury stew which Mrs. Maple, the farmer's wife, who was engaged in getting up her husband's shirts at the table, put down her iron to stir occasionally.

The mistress of Lowercoombe was a comely, middle-aged woman, with a pleasant, ruddy face, and bright blue eyes that were in the habit of looking kindly upon every one and everything. Her husband often said that if she could find no good to say of people they must be either very disagreeable or very wicked, for his wife had a way of finding out folks' good qualities, and always tried to think the best of those who crossed her path in life.

Now, as she held up the last of the shirts at arm's length to survey her work better, she heard a footstep approaching the kitchen door, which opened straight into the yard, and in another moment her father, who had made his home at Lowercoombe since her marriage to the farmer, entered, and going to the fire-place, sat down in a corner of the settle.

He was a tall old man of nearly eighty, with a pair of shrewd dark eyes and a stern face. Jabez Norris was known as honourable and upright, but was considered a hard man. Many years ago he had turned his only son, David, then a lad of eighteen, out of his house, because he wished to become an artist, instead of following in his father's footsteps, and being a farmer. From that day to this, Mr. Norris had never seen nor heard of his son, but whether this was a trouble to the old man or not nobody knew, for he rarely mentioned David to any one, and even his favourite daughter, with whom he lived, and who had loved her brother dearly, spoke of him but seldom.

"Are you tired, father?" asked Mrs. Maple in her bright, cheerful tones. "I always think these days of early spring are trying!"

"Ay, ay, to folks of my age, no doubt. I'm beginning to feel the weight of years, Mary!"

"You are a wonderful man for your age, father; every one says so."

"I'm not complaining, but at my time of life, I must expect to be failing. It is a lovely day, but, as you say, trying. Summer in the sun, and winter in the shade!"

"It's time for Nellie and Bessie to be home from school," Mrs. Maple remarked, adroitly changing the conversation as she glanced at the grandfather's clock that ticked loudly in a corner of the kitchen.

Nellie and Bessie were her two little daughters, aged respectively eleven and nine. Mr. Norris was very proud and fond of them both, and his stern face softened at the mention of their names.

"How fast they do grow!" he exclaimed. "Why, they'll be women almost directly. Nellie is like her father, but I don't think Bessie takes after either you or your husband, Mary!"

"No," Mrs. Maple answered; then she added, in a lower tone, "but I know who she is like, though!"

"Who's that?" enquired the old man with a sharp glance at his daughter.

"Why, David, to be sure! Every one remarks the likeness! She has his soft brown eyes, and his winning manner, and her very voice seems to have an echo of his!"

Mr. Norris was silent, his eyes fixed on the flames which leaped and danced on the hearth. His daughter plucked up her courage and continued:

"Have you forgotten what day it is, father? The third of March! David's birthday! I wonder where he is now! I would give a great deal to know! An only son, and brother, and to think we have neither seen nor heard of him for fifteen years!"

"That is his fault, Mary!"

"I don't know about that! You were hard on him, father, and told him never to show his face at home again, and he took you at your word!"

"It is his pride that has kept him silent!" the old man exclaimed angrily. "It is to be hoped that your Bessie does not take after him in disposition as well as in appearance, or you'll have trouble with her yet!"

"Oh, father, how can you speak like that when she's such a good child?" the mother cried in reproachful accents. "She has never given me a moment's anxiety! But, speaking of David, I do wonder what has become of him, and whether he is married or not!"

At that moment two pairs of light footsteps were heard in the yard, and Nellie and Bessie entered, rosy with struggling against the March wind.

"Well, children," their mother said in greeting, as she turned her bright face with its welcoming smile upon them, "are your appetites ready for dinner?"

"Oh, yes!" they both answered, and Nellie went to the hearth and peeped into the crock, remarking:

"How good it smells!"

Bessie sat down on the settle by her grandfather's side and slipped her little, warm fingers into his cold palm.

"How grave you look, Granfer!" she exclaimed, calling him by the name she and her sister had given him. "What have you and mother been talking about?" she added coaxingly.

"About some one you never saw—your Uncle David!" the old man responded, much to the surprise of his daughter, who had never known him mention their uncle to the children before.

"Oh, I've heard of him!" Bessie cried. "He wanted to be an artist, and he went away and never came back again! He used always to be painting pictures, didn't he, Granfer?"

"Yes; neglecting his work and idling his time! He cared nothing for the farm, but was for ever with a pencil or a paint-brush in his hand!"

"Painting was his talent," Mrs. Maple remarked quietly.

"Then I suppose God gave it to him," Bessie said thoughtfully. "It wouldn't have been right if he had not been an artist, would it, Granfer?"

"What do you mean, child?"

"I think I understand," Mrs. Maple interposed, seeing her little daughter hardly knew how to explain. "You mean that if your uncle David had not used the talent God had given him, he would have been like the man in the parable who hid his talent in the earth!"

"Yes," Bessie said eagerly, "he ought to have used it, and instead he put it away so that it was no good to any one!"

Mrs. Maple glanced at her father somewhat anxiously. He was looking at Bessie attentively and gravely, but not as though he was angry.

"So you think my son was perfectly right in disobeying me," he said. "I wanted him to be a farmer, and he would not!"

"He knew he could never be a good farmer," Mrs. Maple put in quietly. "We must be just, father!"

"Ay; but I don't forget how he defied me."

"What became of him?" asked Nellie. "Do you think he has become rich, Granfer?"

The old man laughed disagreeably.