"Now what do you think of that?" he grunted, and held the object out at arm's length.
It was a baby's tiny sock; unworn, unsoiled. The little twisted foot that had found shelter in it for so brief a time had not been a restless foot.
"Give that to me," Isa said hoarsely, and tears stood in her grim eyes.
"What the—what does that—mean?"
"How should I know, Tate? But it set me thinking. Things often let loose ideas, you know. This being Christmas—and the stable and the manger and—and—the baby. It all fits in."
Tate looked at his wife in an almost frightened way.
"You mean"—he tried awkwardly to follow her confused words; "you mean—a baby has been borned in—our manger?"
"Lord! Tate what are you thinking of? St. Angé may be wilder than Bethlehem in some ways, but there ain't never been no baby borned in my manger."
"Then what in thunder do you mean?"
"Nothing, Tate"; and now the tears were actually falling from Isa's eyes.