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waiting for me.

TWO
    B ack in England it was the beginning of December with Christmas almost upon us; in the butchers’ shops there were sprigs of holly round the trays of faggots, and oranges in the mouths of pigs who managed to look jaunty even though they were dead. At dusk the stallholders in the market were showing their goods under the flare of naphtha lights and from the windows of some shops hung cotton wool threaded on string to look like falling snow. The hot chestnut seller stood at the street corner with his glowing brazier and I remembered how my mother could never resist buying a bag or two and how they used to warm our hands as we carried them home. She liked best though to bake our own under the grate on Christmas night. She had made Christmas for us because she liked to celebrate it as it was celebrated in the home of her childhood. She used to tell us how there would be a tree for every member of the family lighted with candles and a big one in the center of the
Rittersaal
with presents for everyone. Christmas had been celebrated for years and years in her home, she used to say. We in England had also decorated fir trees when the custom had been brought from Germany by the Queen’s mother and later strengthened by Her Majesty’s strong association with her husband’s land.
    I had looked forward to Christmases but now this one held nocharm for me. I missed my parents far more than I had thought possible. It was true I had been away from them for four years but I had always been aware that they were there in the little house next to the bookshop which was my home.
    Everything was changed now. That vague untidiness which had been homely was lacking. Aunt Caroline would have everything shining as she said “like a new pin.” In my unhappy mood I demanded to know why there should be such desirability about a new pin, which was what Aunt Caroline called “being funny.” Mrs. Green, who had been our housekeeper for years, had packed her bags and left. “Good riddance,” said Aunt Caroline. We only had young Ellen to do the rough work. “Very well,” said Aunt Caroline, “we have three pairs of hands in the house, why should we want more?”
    Something had to be done about the shop, too. Obviously it could not be carried on in the same manner since my father’s death. The conclusion was reached that it would have to be sold and in due course a Mr. Clees came along with his middle-aged daughter Amelia and bought it. These negotiations went on for some time and it emerged that the shop and its stock would not yield so very much once my father’s debts had been paid.
    â€œHe had no head, your father,” said Aunt Caroline scornfully.
    â€œHe had a head all right,” replied Aunt Matilda, “but it was always in the clouds.”
    â€œAnd this is the result. Debts . . . I never saw such debts. And when you think of that wine cellar of his and the wine bills. What he did with it all, I can’t imagine.”
    â€œHe liked to entertain his friends from the university and they liked to come,” I explained.
    â€œI don’t wonder at it, with all the wine he was fool enough to give them.”
    Aunt Caroline saw everything in that way. People did things for what they got, never for any other reason. I think she had come to look after my father to make sure of her place in heaven. She suspected the motives of everyone. “And what is he going to get out ofthat?” was a favorite comment. Or “What good does she think that will do her?” Aunt Matilda was of a softer nature. She was obsessed with her own state of health and the more irregular it was the better pleased she seemed to be. She could also be quite happy discussing other people’s ailments and brightened at the mention of them; but nothing pleased her so much as her own. Her heart was often “playing her up.” It “jumped,” it