"They told me it was Christmas morning," he said, pulling off the old cap again.
Yarrow's chin had sunk on his breast, as his eager eyes drank all this morning in. He breathed short and quick, like a child before whom some incredible pleasure flashes open.
"Well," with a long breath, putting on his cap, "I didn't think of aught like this, yonder. God help us!"
He didn't know why he smiled or rubbed his hands cheerfully. His sleep had refreshed him, maybe. But it seemed as if the great beauty and tenderness of the world were for him, this morning,—as if some great Power stretched out its arms to him, and spoke through it.
"I'll not be silly again," straightening himself, and buttoning his coat; but before the words were spoken, his head had sunk again, and he stood quiet.
Something in all this brought Martha and the little chaps before him, he did not know why, but his heart ached with a sharper pain than ever, that made his eyes wet with tears.
"If there should be a chance!"—lifting his hands to the deep of blue in the east.
This was the free air in which he used to think he could find God.
"What if it were true that He was there,—loving, not hating, taking care of Martha, and"—
He stopped, catching the word.