The ranch had been a losing venture for several years and there had been times when he and Edith had worried about being able to provide for their large, expensive family, but now the future seemed secure for at least a few years and Theodore Roosevelt had never been one to let anxiety harass him for long.
He paused to look up at Sagamore Hill on his way back from the carriage house. The bulky building with its wings and high roof line stood out clearly against the sky of early night. The house had somehow the wrong colors, as Alice was apt to observe a trifle acidly, remarking that the mustard yellow of the shingles on the gables certainly did not harmonize with the rose-pink brick.
Edith, his wise, firm, gentle wife, was waiting at the door.
“Hurry off with your wraps,” she said. “Supper is ready and we have good hot soup.”
“What, no wassail bowl?” bantered Theodore. “No boar’s head with a wreath of holly and an apple in his mouth? This is Christmas Eve, remember. Just plain old soup?”
“Don’t make the children dissatisfied with their food, Theodore,” Edith chided. “Ted, let me feel your cheeks. They look very flushed to me.”
“Frosty outside,” her husband reminded her.
“I don’t want any more pills or brown stuff out of a bottle,” whined Ted, “and I don’t specially care for soup.”
“Listen, son,” said his father. “You are always talking about being a soldier and a soldier learns first of all to eat what is put before him. I’m sure Mother has very excellent soup and it will be warming and welcome on this chilly night. I put wrong ideas in their heads,” he admitted, as they shepherded the children into the dining room. “A very foolish thing to do.”
“Now you set an example of hungrily eating your soup,” said Edith. “At least there is a pudding later.”