A Christmas Dream that Came True
"England is a long way off," grandmother said, softly. "Especially at Christmas time."
She was not talking to any one in particular, but just to herself. She had been sitting for quite awhile by the parlor window reading her Bible. Sometimes her eyes were fastened on the page, and sometimes when a strange step came down the street, she would glance up hurriedly, almost in an eager way, as if she were watching for some one. Then, when she saw who it was, her eyes would drop again on the book in a disappointed fashion. I knew what she would do next. Very slowly she would turn the pages right to the middle of the Bible, where a picture lay between the leaves.
"Isn't that father, grandma?" I asked, anxiously, leaning against her knee.
"No, Rhoda," she said, in that decisive way of hers.
I hung closer over the picture to make real sure.
It looked so like father when he was a little boy that I thought she must be mistaken. Yet somehow it was different. This little boy was fairer. There was a curl of hair on the page, a light-brown curl with red glints in it, and a tiny wreath made of pressed lilacs which once upon a time he had joined together, flower by flower, out in our front garden. I could almost see him doing it, while the wind blew through those brown curls.