"It was his chair; he died in it," said Aunt Rachel. "And you--shall you die in it?" "As God wills." "Has ... _other life_ ... visited it long?" "Many years; but it is always small; it never grows." "To their mothers babes never grow. They remain ever babes.... None other
has ever seen it?" "Except yourself, none. I sit here; presently it creeps into my arms; it
is small and warm; I rock, and then... it goes." "Would it come to another chair?" "I cannot tell. I think not. It was his chair." Annabel mused. At the other end of the room Flora was now bestowed on
Jack, the disreputable sailor. The gipsy's eyes rested on the bridal
party....

"Yet another might see it--"

"None has." "No; but yet.... The door does not always shut behind us suddenly. Perhaps one who has toddled but a step or two over the threshold might,
by looking back, catch a glimpse.... What is the name of the smallest
one?" "Angela." "That means 'angel'... Look, the doll who died yesterday is now being
married.... It may be that Life has not yet sealed the little one's eyes. Will you let Annabel ask her if she sees what it is you hold in your
arms?" Again the voice was soft and wheedling....

"No, Annabel," said Aunt Rachel faintly. "Will you rock again?" Aunt Rachel made no reply. "Rock..." urged the cajoling voice. But Aunt Rachel only turned the betrothal ring on her finger. Over at the
altar Jack was leering at his new-made bride, past decency; and little
Angela held the wooden horse's head, which had parted from its body. "Rock, and comfort yourself--" tempted the voice. Then slowly Aunt Rachel rose from her chair. "No, Annabel," she said gently. "You should not have spoken. When the
snow melts you will go, and come no more; why then did you speak? It was
mine. It was not meant to be seen by another. I no longer want it. Please
go." The swarthy woman turned her almond eyes on her once more. "You cannot live without it," she said as she also rose....

And as Jack and his bride left the church on the reheaded horse, Aunt
Rachel walked with hanging head from the apartment. III

Thenceforward, as day followed day, Aunt Rachel rocked no more; and with
the packing and partial melting of the snow the gipsies up at the
caravans judged it time to be off about their business. It was on the
morning of Christmas Eve that they came down in a body to the Abbey
Farm to express their thanks to those who had befriended them; but the
bailiff was not there. He and the farm men had ceased work, and were
down at the church, practising the carols. Only Aunt Rachel sat, still
and knitting, in the black walnut chair; and the children played on the
floor. A night in the toy-box had apparently bred discontent between Jack
and Flora--or perhaps they sought to keep their countenances before
the world; at any rate, they sat on opposite sides of the room, Jack
keeping boon company with the lead soldiers, his spouse reposing, her
lead-balanced eyes closed, in the broken clockwork motor-car. With the
air of performing some vaguely momentous ritual, the children were
kissing one another beneath the bunch of mistletoe that hung from the
centre beam. In the intervals of kissing they told one another in
whispers that Aunt Rachel was not very well, and Angela woke Flora to
tell her that Aunt Rachel had Brown Titus also. "Stay you here; I will give the lady dear our thanks," said Annabel to
the group of gipsies gathered about the porch; and she entered the
great hall-kitchen. She approached the chair in which Aunt Rachel sat. There was obeisance in the bend of her body, but command in her long
almond eyes, as she spoke. "Lady dear, you must rock or you cannot live." Aunt Rachel did not look up from her work. "Rocking, I should not live long," she replied. "We are leaving you." "All leave me." "Annabel fears she has taken away your comfort." "Only for a little while. The door closes behind us, but it opens again." "But for that little time, rock--"

Aunt Rachel shook her head. "No. It is finished. Another has seen.... Say good-bye to your
companions; they are very welcome to what they have had; and God speed
you." "They thank you, lady dear.... Will you not forget that Annabel saw, and
rock?" "No more." Annabel stooped and kissed the hand that bore the betrothal hoop of
pearls. The other hand Aunt Rachel placed for a moment upon the smoky
head of the babe in the sling. It trembled as it rested there, but the
tremor passed, and Annabel, turning once at the porch, gave her a last
look. Then she departed with her companions. That afternoon, Jack and Flora had shaken down to wedlock as married
folk should, and sat together before the board spread with the dolls'
tea-things. The pallid light in the great hall-kitchen faded; the candles
were lighted; and then the children, first borrowing the stockings of
their elders to hang at the bed's foot, were packed off early--for it was
the custom to bring them down again at midnight for the carols. Aunt
Rachel had their good-night kisses, not as she had them every night, but
with the special ceremony of the mistletoe. Other folk, grown folk, sat with Aunt Rachel that evening; but the old
walnut chair did not move upon its rockers. There was merry talk, but
Aunt Rachel took no part in it. The board was spread with ale and cheese
and spiced loaf for the carol-singers; and the time drew near for their
coming. When at midnight, faintly on the air from the church below, there came
the chiming of Christmas morning, all bestirred themselves. "They'll be here in a few minutes," they said; "somebody go and bring the
children down;" and within a very little while subdued noises were heard
outside, and the lifting of the latch of the yard gate. The children were
in their nightgowns, hardly fully awake; a low voice outside was heard
giving orders; and then there arose on the night the carol. "Hush!" they said to the wondering children; "listen!..." It was the Cherry Tree Carol that rose outside, of how sweet Mary, the
Queen of Galilee, besought Joseph to pluck the cherries for her Babe, and
Joseph refused; and the voices of the singers, that had begun
hesitatingly, grew strong and loud and free. "... and Joseph wouldn't pluck the cherries," somebody was whispering to
the tiny Angela....

"_Mary said to Cherry Tree,
  'Bow down to my knee,
That I may pluck cherries
  For my Babe and me._'"

the carollers sang; and "Now listen, darling," the one who held Angela
murmured....

"_The uppermost spray then
  Bowed down to her knee;
'Thus you may see, Joseph,
  These cherries are for me.' "'O, eat your cherries, Mary,
  Give them your Babe now;
O, eat your cherries, Mary,
  That grew upon the bough._'"

The little Angela, within the arms that held her, murmured, "It's the
gipsies, isn't it, mother?" "No, darling. The gipsies have gone. It's the carol-singers, singing
because Jesus was born." "But, mother ... it _is_ the gipsies, isn't it?... 'Cos look..."

"Look where?" "At Aunt Rachel, mother ...