It was very curious and weirdly pleasurable, and it lasted one minute.

When it ceased the tension relaxed instantly, and every one was friendly and cordial and safe again.
This morning the little boy was actually impatient during the rumble, so eager was he to talk.

And not until he had been assured by both his grandfather and Clytie that Santa Claus meant everything he left to be truly kept; that he came back for nothing--not even for a cane--_of any kind_--that he might have left at a certain house by mistake--not until then would he heave the sigh of immediate security and consent to eat his egg and muffins, of which latter Clytie had to bring hot ones from the kitchen because both boys had let the first plate go cold.

For Clytie, like Grandfather Delcher, was also one of the last of a race of American giants--in her case a race preceding servants, that called itself "hired girls"-- who not only ate with the family, but joyed and sorrowed with it and for long terms of years was a part of it in devotion, responsibility and self-respect.

She had, it is true, dreaded the coming of these children, but from the moment that the two cold, subdued little figures had looked in doubting amazement at the four kinds of preserves and three kinds of cake set out for their first collation in the new home, she had rejoiced unceasingly in a vicarious motherhood.
Within an hour after breakfast the morning's find had been examined, appraised, and accorded perpetual rank by merit.