"Our Christmas, Ted. It's our day," Helen whispered, her cheek against mine—her old trick when she was happy or pleased. "Do look at baby, Ted. Isn't she a darling?"
"Mummy dear, Santa Claus brought me a real paint-box, an' brushes, an' pencils, an' paper, an' a book to paint in."
"Isn't that wonderful! Show mummy all your presents."
Baby began bringing them up, one by one, laying them in rows at her mother's feet. A telegraph boy arrived. I snatched the message from him. I had wired Mr. Claybourne a day or two before that time was nearly up. He had foreseen that Helen might read it.
"Coming with mother for a Christmas visit. We leave tomorrow. Love to you three." I showed it to Helen.
"How nice of dad, Ted! I'm so glad he's going to take a holiday. Why didn't they plan to be here today?"
Soon after, she went to sleep, and I sat at her feet, thinking of Christmas. At five the doctor dropped in. I saw Miss Brock talking aside with him by his buggy.
"Don't wake her yet," he said, and led me around to the front verandah. I knew what he meant.
"It may be tonight or tomorrow, Mr. Jevons," he began, as he took his chair. "Miss Brock reports that she has grown markedly weaker in the last twenty-four hours. The excitement of Christmas was not good for her, but I did not want to deprive her of that pleasure. I can stay, if you wish it. There is nothing, however, that I can do. Miss Brock is most competent. I shall be within call, in any event."
"Her father and mother are leaving Deep Harbor tomorrow."