Every link in the
colored paper garlands was a matter of pride to some one.
What the children had left undone, Mr. Demry had finished. All the
movables had been put out of sight as if they were never to be wanted
again. From the ceiling swung two glowing paper lanterns that threw soft,
mysterious, dancing lights on things. In the big fireplace a huge fire
crackled and roared, and on the shelf above it were stacks of golden
oranges, and piles of fat, brown doughnuts. Across one corner, on a stout
cord, hung some green branches with small candles twinkling above them.
It was not exactly a Christmas tree, but it had evidently fooled Santa
Claus, for on every branch hung a trinket or a toy for somebody.
And nobody thought, least of all Mr. Demry, of how many squeaks of the
old fiddle had gone into the making of this party, of the bread and meat
that had gone into the oranges and doughnuts, of the fires that should
have warmed Mr. Demry's chilled old bones for weeks to come, that went
roaring up the wide chimney in one glorious burst of prodigality.
When the party was in full swing and the excitement was at its highest,
the guests were seated on the floor in a double row, and Mr. Demry took
his stand by the fireplace, with his fiddle under his chin, and began
tuning up.
Out in the dark hall, in quivering expectancy, stood the princess,
shivering with impatience as she waited for Dan to fling open the door
for her triumphant entrance. Every twang of the violin strings
vibrated in her heart, and she could scarcely wait for the signal.
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