She gave a little cry. "Justin, you must not——!"
He laughed and held out his arms to her. "Anthony said I might. Just to show you. He didn't quite dare for the wedding. But I want you to know that you are not marrying—a broken reed—dearest."
She looked up at him. "How good it seemed," she whispered, "to see your face above mine. I—I am just as high as your heart—Justin."
Snow over the harbor. Snow, too, at Harbor Light.
Anthony's patients, warmly housed, were busy with Christmas work. Women who had always bought perfunctory Christmas presents, and to whom the holiday season had meant merely a weary round of shopping, bent eagerly over the bit of pottery or of weaving which was to carry a message of peace and good will. Men, whose gift-giving had lost all of its precious meanings, were carving quaint weather-vanes and toys with infinite pains, and reveling in their skill.
Diana, moving from one to the other, encouraged and suggested.
"I am so glad we worked out that mistletoe design for the pottery and the holly for the little white rugs," she said; "it makes the work so much more interesting."
"It is you who makes the work interesting," said her adoring husband who was at her elbow. "Don't you ever wish for anything else? Wouldn't you like to be down South with Justin and Betty—with purple seas and cocoanut palms and tennis and golf and good times?"
"I'd rather be here with you. Every time you come back from an important case or operation I feel as if you were a knight returning from battle—no woman can have that feeling when her husband isn't doing vital things—but I'll wait until I get home, Anthony, to tell you the rest of it—the whole of Harbor Light has its eyes on us."