There was a man's step on the stairs from the office, and Tom Crogan put his head through the doorway.
"Got a bite for a hungry man?" he asked, blinking a bit at the white light from without.
The baby woke up and gurgled. Tom waved the towel at him, drying his face at the sink, and hugged his wife as she passed.
"Storm coming," he said, glancing out at the weather and listening to the soughing of the wind in the pines.
"Nothing else here," she replied, setting the table; "nothing this long while, and, oh, Tom!"—she set down the plate and went over to him—"no word from home, and this is Christmas Eve. Nothing even for the baby."
He patted her back affectionately, and cheered her after the manner of a man.
"Trains all late, the snow is that deep, more particular in the East, they say. Mail might not come through for a week. Baby don't know the difference so long as he is warm. And coal we've got a-plenty."
"Then it will be New Year's," she pursued her own thoughts drearily. Tom was not a good comforter just then.
He ate like a tired man, in silence. "Special on the line," he said, as he stirred the sugar in his coffee. "When the road opens up she'll follow right on the Overland."
"Some o' your rich folks, most like, going for a holiday on the Coast," she commented without interest. Tom nodded. She gave the stove lid an impatient twist.