“Bird,” I said, “you are a wonder. I know that the muscles in your throat are almost microscopic. I have always told Joey—” But here I ceased to admonish the bird, I went back up the porch steps.
As I was closing the door I heard the rattle of the stage as it passed along the river road on its way to the village. The driver shouted a merry Christmas to some one on the road. I threw a fresh log on the fire and sat down heavily in my chair. It was Christmas morning—and they had gone!
I drowsed after a time, lying back in my great chair with the collie asleep at my feet. When I awakened the sun was high, and the world outside my window was so sparkling and bright that it dazzled my sight. I went to the kitchen, kindled a fire, and opened the kitchen door to let the collie out. I was washing my hands at the wash-bench in the corner, when I heard the latch of the door click. Footsteps crossed the floor, some one was coming up behind me saying:
“I have brought a chicken pie for your dinner, Mr. Dale—Dad’ll be along soon—and I wish you a Merry Christmas.”
It was Wanza.
She stood there as she had so often stood before, a white-covered basket on one arm, the other filled with bundles. But her face was pale to-day, and her glorious hair was swept straight back from her brow and tucked away beneath a net, and her apparel was sober gray. I stared at her and stared and stared, until the pink ran up in her cheek and she dropped the bundles and set down the basket, that she might put her hands over her abashed face. I stood there and felt shaken and dumbfounded, not attempting to speak, afraid indeed of the sound of my own voice.
The fire crackled. Cheerily through the door Wanza had left open behind her, came the chickadee’s note. The sunlight was dazzling as it struck into my eyes from the white oilcloth on the kitchen table. The room seemed suddenly illumined, the air electric and revitalized. At length I stammered out:
“Thank you, thank you!”
“It’s only chicken pie,” she whispered.
“Thank you for not going.”