“Now, my children,” said I, “you need the same kind of treatment. Why do you grunt and turn your backs on each other? Each of you may think himself of finer clay than his brothers, but the fact is you are all Breugnons, chips of the old block, thorough-bred Burgundians. You all have big crooked noses, and wide mouths like wine-funnels; your eyes look out fiercely from under bushy eyebrows, but there is a twinkle in them all the same. The artist’s signature is plain to see on the four of you, so can’t you understand that if you hurt your brothers, you are injuring yourself as well? That it is for your own interest to be united? What if you don’t think alike on some questions? That is rather an advantage than otherwise, for you cannot all plow the same field; on the contrary, the more fields and opinions there are in the family, the greater our strength and happiness. Reach out then into the world as far as you possibly can, and increase your portion of land and thought. Each for himself and all for each, and may the long Breugnon nose point the way to the future glory of the family! Come, boys, shake hands and be friends!” For a moment they still looked sulkily at each other, but I could see the clouds parting, and all at once Michael flung his arms round John Francis, with a loud laugh, “Embrace me, Brother-Big-Nose!” cried he, and the others followed his example. “Come, Martine, let us drink to the Breugnon brothers ourselves!!” A few moments before, when I broke the ewer in my anger, I had cut my wrist a little, and left a little blood on the table. Anthony held his glass under the scratch in his pompous manner, and caught a drop. “Let this wine from our father’s veins be the seal of our reconciliation.” “What a disgusting idea!” I cried; “to think of spoiling good wine with such a mixture! Throw it away, and if you want to drink my blood, you’ll find it in a bottle of the best!” and thereupon we all drank and all agreed as to the vintage. When they had gone and Martine was binding up my wrist, she said slyly, “You succeeded at last, you old scamp, didn’t you?” “Succeeded in what? In stopping the quarrel?” “You know well enough what I mean,” and she pointed to the broken fragments of the ewer on the table. I pretended not to understand, and, with the most innocent expression, declared that I had not the least idea what she meant, but I could not help laughing, and she boxed my ears for an old rascal. “I couldn’t stand the sight of it another minute,” I said, “it was really too hideous; either that ewer or I had to perish!” “The one that remains is none too handsome.” “That does not trouble me, you know, for I don’t have to look at him.” Christmas Eve.