Christmas Eve: How different the scene our house
presents tonight, and this time last year! Then every one of Mr. P.'s
children was here, except Frank; himself only absent; the utmost hilarity
reigned. We had a beautiful Christmas tree, filled with innumerable presents
for everybody, servants and all. The Library was a scene of innocent gayety.
Dear Willy P. distributed the contents of the tree, as his Father had done the
year before. Everybody was pleased and happy. The war had not then claimed any
victim from our circle, and the chief shadow that for that night rested upon us
was Mr. P.'s absence in the army. Now the sadness of the household
forbids any recognition of Christmas; we are scattered to our own separate
rooms to mourn over the contrast, and the Library is in darkness. Willy, whose
genial face rises so brightly before me, lies in a distant grave — cut off by a
violent death. Randolph's coffin has been carried out of the house so recently
that no sunshine has yet come back. Frank is here with his one arm,
making me feel perpetually grieved for him. Yet why complain? This is nothing
to what many others have suffered. My husband and children are spared to me, so
that I have peculiar cause for gratitude. I have been permitted to hear of my
father's and sisters' and brothers' welfare, too. Surely it does illy become me
to utter lamentations. Rather let me bless God that his rod has been laid
on me so lightly.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and
Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 157-8
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