No, it was not among them.
Several times each day she passed through this moment of acute suspense.
But, not yet had David's letter reached her.
Yet, somehow, she had long felt certain that it would come on Christmas-eve: the letter, at sight of which she would know that her husband had reached at last "the Land that is very far off."
Moving to the fireplace, she made herself some tea, in the little brown pot, which, from constant use, by day and by night, had become a humble yet unfailing friend.
Then she lay back in her chair, with a delightful sense of liberty and leisure, and gave herself up to a quiet hour of retrospective thought.
It seemed years since that October morning when David's letter had reached her and she had had to face the fact that he was dying, yet did not want her; indeed begged, commanded her, to stay away.
In that hour she lost David; lost him more completely than she could ever lose him by death. A loved one lost in life, is lost indeed. She had never been worthy of David. She had tried hard, by a life of perpetual frankincense, to become worthy. But no effort in the present could undo the great wrong of the past.
Before the relentless hand of death actually widowed her, her sad heart was widowed by the fact that her husband was dying, yet did not want her with him; that his last weeks were to be undisturbed by letters to, or from, her. Her one joy in the present, her sole hope for the immediate future, had died at that decision.