It was Christmas eve in Crosby Corners. Thick snow was falling heavily and the wind whistled like a drunken demon; it was cold, bitter cold. Edwin Dell rapped with mittened hand on the door of the cozy farm-house and Aunt Charity opened it.
“Well, aunt,” he said, “I’ve come back.”
“For pity’s sake, close the door,” she said. “Hang up your coat and put your goloshes in the golosh-box.”
He did so. He sat there, silent, ashen.
“Why, Edwin Dell, what ails you? What is the matter?” she asked, sharply.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he faltered.
“Then why do you sigh?”
“It was the wind,” he replied. “Only the wind in the pines.”
“Fiddlesticks! I know a sigh. Stop moping, Edwin. This is Christmas eve.”
“It’s Christmas eve for some folks,” he said; “but just night for me.”