“If you wish it,” she said, hesitatingly.
Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter’s death had created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.
“I think we had better go,” said the doctor; “though God has bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of others.”
“Perhaps you are right, Joseph.”
Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up, kept on with her work.
Just then the bell was heard to ring.
“I hope it is not for you, Joseph,” said his wife, apprehensively.
“I am afraid it is,” said the doctor, with a look of resignation.
“I thought it would be too good luck for me to have the whole evening to myself.”
“I wish you were not a doctor,” said Mrs. Drayton.