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Rosy Posy's tiny socks were already in place, and soon three more pairs of long, lank stockings were dangling emptily, and then, in a jiffy the Maynard children were all asleep, and Christmas Day was silently drawing nearer and nearer. The sun waited just about as long as he could stand it on Christmas morning, and then he poked his yellow nose above the horizon to see what was going on.
Posy's fingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having them taken from his own by those tender little digits.
Several pages were devoted to souvenirs from home, and Rosy Posy's illegible scrawls were side by side with neatly-written postcards from her parents. All of these things Uncle Steve arranged with the utmost care and taste, and Marjorie soon learned how to do it for herself.
Posy's eyes, hers, and no others besides her own, were allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and now that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers had touched the strings and had produced an infantine moan. "Grandpa, let me do it again." Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m!
Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa'n't like the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?"
Rosy Posy's your doll, is she?" questioned Miss Drayton. Anne nodded assent. "Uncle Carey gave her to me. I make some of her clothes. Louise makes the frilly ones. We were getting her school dresses ready. Uncle Carey said I really truly must go to school this year. Then yesterday he came home in such a hurry. Louise thought he was sick.
At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on her cheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly: "What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!" This was a crumb of comfort, and Marjorie drew the baby's cool cheek against her own hot one. The child scrambled up on the bed, beside her sister, and petted her gently, saying: "Don't ky, Middy; 'top kyin'."
But he put his hand out to her, and she held it, standing quite still and silent. When Mrs Baxter came to take away the tray, Posy's mother got up, and whispered a word to the child. Then Posy went away, and her eyes never beheld the old man again. That was a day which Posy never forgot, not though she should live to be much older than her grandfather was when she thus left him.
On this occasion the moan was not entirely infantine, Posy's fingers having been something too strong, and the case was closed and locked, and grandpa shook his head. "But Mrs Baxter won't be angry," said Posy. Mrs Baxter was the housekeeper in the deanery, and had Mr Harding under her special charge. "No, my darling; Mrs Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn't disturb the house."
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