"Aren't there even any presents?"
"No."
"Oh!" she smiled. "Isn't it funny!"
"What's funny?" asked Guthrie perplexedly.
The eyes that lifted to his were brimming full of a strange, wistful sort of astonishment. "Why, it's funny," she faltered, "it's funny—that without—any of these things—that I thought were so necessary to it—I've found my 'perfectly happy Christmas.'"
Then, almost bashfully, her wisp-like fingers went straying out toward the soft silken folds of the precious pink sash which she kept always close to her pillow.
"If—you—don't—mind," she said, "I think I'll cut my sash in two and give half of it to Hanlon's Mary to make a dress for her baby."
The medicine spoon dropped rather clatteringly out of Guthrie's hand.
"But I sent all the way to Denver for it," he protested.
"Oh, yes, I know all about that," she acknowledged. "But—what—can—a great big girl—like me—do with a—pink sash?"