Her husband stroked her bent head with his thin delicate hand.
“Don’t cry, Jennie!” he said softly—“I won’t go away from you! I’d rather die!”
Mr. Pitt coughed obstreperously.
“Look here, Dove,” he said—“Don’t let us be miserable on Christmas Eve! I left McNason himself looking as wretched as a plucked crow. Poor old chap! With all his money, I wouldn’t be in his shoes for the world! Tell me, what did the doctor say when he saw you to-day?”
“About the same as he has always said,” replied Dove, resignedly—“That an operation would not only relieve, but cure me, and that he should like to perform it here in my own house, and get a good surgical nurse to attend upon me, with my wife’s assistance. For my wife is a capital nurse, aren’t you, Jennie?” He caressed the bent head again and went on—“He thinks me of too nervous a temperament to do well away from home.”
There followed a silence. Presently Pitt spoke again in determined accents.
“I tell you what it is, Dove,” he said, “I’ll lend you the money!”
Dove started.
“You, Mr. Pitt?”
“Yes, I!” and Pitt, smiling, drew himself up with an air of resolution—“I can’t afford it a bit—but I’ll risk it! I’ll risk it because—well!—because it’s Christmas-time!—Now don’t try to get up!” for Dove raising himself in his chair with some difficulty, caught at Pitt’s hand and grasped it hard, while tears stood in his eyes. “And don’t thank me, because I can’t bear to be thanked! It’s Christmas-time, as I’ve said—and I’ve always had ‘old-fashioned’ ideas of Christmas. My mother taught them to me—God bless her!—I think”—and his voice sank a little—“that perhaps we ought to spare a little ‘gold, frankincense and myrrh’ just at this season—and this loan to you will be my thank-offering—though it’s a poor thing at best, for you see I can’t give you the money, Willie! McNason could have given it and never have missed it, but I can’t. I wish I could! However, if you’ll take the will for the deed——”