She was sorry the moment she said it, for a shadow fell upon his face.
“But never mind, John,” she said quickly. “Life isn’t made up of pinks and greens, and neither is happiness. You can have a whole lot of happiness in this world in gray—if you only know how; and I’m going to teach these children the secret. Now look at my eatables. It is great fun to make a cookie menagerie with one cutter, and that a rabbit. You see, I stick on a trunk, pull down his ears, round him up a bit, and behold an elephant! Then when I want a camel I give Br’er Rabbit two humps, stretch out his jaws, give him a jab almost anywhere—and there’s your camel! And look at my dachshund. I laughed till I cried over that. Poor Davie was so distressed when I stretched him out.
“And here’s a nice red apple for each one. Poor Mary Henderson gave them to me the last time I was over there and I’ve been saving them ever since. They are a little specked, but I think they will hold out. I did want the oranges, but ... no, of course you couldn’t when the draft didn’t come. Anyway, with the candy they won’t miss other things. I have the bags all ready—red tarlatan from a peach basket—see?
“There’s just one thing I can’t get around. I do want something to give the house a Christmas look. I miss that. And there’s not a thing here but sagebrush. At home, in Maryland, we had such quantities of holly; and we always made wreaths for the windows and had mistletoe for the chandeliers, and a roaring fire in the open fireplace, and—I can see those parlors now. Those are the memories that cling to us always, I think. I am so sorry that our children can never have them. I hate to think of their lives being utterly devoid of beauty. The East has more than its share.”
She was talking more to herself than to him, being momentarily carried off her feet, so to speak, by the flood of recollection sweeping over her of the old home with its mighty oaks, its giant elms, and the hills beyond where Christmas trees could be had for the cutting. The sight of his face brought her back to the present.
“But fortunately Christmas is not dependent upon holly and mistletoe,” she said brightly. “They are only the ‘outward, visible sign.’ We will garnish our home with love and good cheer and contentment. After all, they are the ‘inward, spiritual grace.’”
She threw up her head with a gesture habitual to her as if defying fate and its limitations, and his eyes followed her as she moved about the room putting things to rights. What a glorious creature she was!—accepting poverty and bareness as her portion and yet rising above them regally; throwing herself into his work, her own round of toil, her children’s pleasures, the neighborhood sorrows—all with the same exuberance of interest and prodigality of self! What would he have been in his work without her, his “missionary coadjutor,” as he called her? She was so overflowing with vitality, so undaunted, so alive! A thrill passed through him at the word alive.... Poor Joe Henderson! Suppose—He covered his eyes and his lips moved.
She was on her knees beside him in an instant.
“John, what is it? What are you saying?”
He took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. “I was saying: ‘Bless the Lord, O my soul; and forget not all His benefits.’”