“Or when you’re in trouble, Molly, or in joy,” the other woman said, musing. “Over and over again I’ve thought that I must go to you—must try to clear up the whole silly business! But you are away so much, and so busy—and so famous now—that somehow I always hesitated! And just lately, when it seemed—” her voice thickened, “when it seemed as if Timmy really might die,” she went on with a little difficulty, “I’ve felt so much to blame! He’s always loved you so, admired you—his big sister! He is always quoting you, what Molly says and does. And just to have the stupid years go on and on, and this silence between us, seemed so—so wasted!”
“Die!” Molly echoed scornfully. “Why should he? With these lovely boys and you to live for!”
“Yes, I know. But don’t you remember saying years ago, when you were just beginning to study medicine to have an intelligent interest in George’s work—don’t you remember saying then that dying is a point of view? That you had seen a sudden sort of meekness come over persons who really weren’t very sick, just as if they thought to themselves: ‘What now? Oh, yes, I’m to die?’ I remember our all shouting when you said it, but many a time since I’ve thought it was true. And somehow it’s been almost that way with Timmy, lately. Just—dying, because he was through—living!”
“Cassie, what utter foolishness to talk that way, and get yourself crying when you are tired out, anyway!”
“Ah, well, I believe just the sight of you when he wakes up is going to cure him, Molly!” his wife smiled through her tears.
But only a little later, the invalid fell, as it chanced, into the most restful sleep he had known for weeks, and Mary, creeping away to her car, under the cold, high moon, and hearing the Christmas bells ring midnight as she went over the muffling snow toward her own room and her own bed, could only promise that when she had had a bath, and some sleep, she would come back and perhaps be beside him when he awakened.
And so it happened that in the late dawn, when three little wrappered forms were stirring in the Rutledge nursery, and when thrilled whispers were sounding in the halls, Merle Madison was amazed to see her mother coming quietly up from the kitchen and could give her an ecstatic Christmas kiss.
“We know it’s only oranges and candy,” breathed Merle, “but we’re going down to get our stockings now!”
“Is the tree lighted?” Mary Madison, who was carrying a steaming bowl, asked in French.
“It is simply a vision!” the other mother, whose pale face was radiant, answered, with her lips close to the curly head of the excited baby she was carrying. “Timmy’s waking,” she added, with a nod toward the bedroom door.