“She earns her board, every bit of it,” said that lady with energy. “I don’t know what I should do without her workin’ and singin’ round the house. You jest let her stay till she wants to go,—that is, ma’am, if you can spare her yourself. She’s gainin’ in health every day of her life, and when she’s ready she’ll take hold as she never did before, I can tell you.”
So matters were left as they were, until, with a start, Florence remembered, one bright, cold afternoon, that it was just a year since she had been carried in through the front door that bitter night.
Wesley had come in from his work a few moments before, glowing with the exercise and the keen air, to ask her to take a sleigh-ride with him that evening. The roads were fine, he said, and the colt, not having been out for a week, was in the best of spirits. There was a full moon, too, and they would celebrate Christmas Eve by this drive, just by way of contrast with that of a year ago.
In gayest mood, therefore, Florence stood upon the broad door-stone in front of the house when, a few hours later, the colt came jingling up from the barn with a light step, plainly considering the sleigh and its load the most stupendous joke conceivable, really nothing at all for a strong young fellow like him; it was difficult for him, on the whole, to realize that he was in harness at all. That his driver, however, was hardly inclined to allow him to forget that fact was evident from the even, steady rein and the firm voice behind it.
For a few moments, as Florence took her place beside Wesley, she felt unaccountably shy; this soon wore off in the rush of sweet, cool air past their cheeks and the wonderful beauty of the night. How the starlight twinkled and danced from each little bright point above the white, silent world, waiting for the far-off chords of angel music! Christmas Eve. No sound in the air but the silvery voice of the bells and the murmur of the pines, “Peace, peace on earth.”
Wesley stooped to arrange the heavy fur robe more warmly about his companion. Then he turned and looked into her earnest, upturned face. “Do you know,” he said, quietly, “what I should label my picture if I were to paint your portrait? ’A Brown Study.’”
Florence laughed a little: “I was only thinking how very contented I was, and how much more happiness this Christmas looks back upon than the last.”
“Miss Amory, are you in a mood for answering questions to-night?” He felt her start slightly under the robe. “Because, you know, you have never passed that examination.”
There was something in his voice, an earnestness underlying his light words, that made her turn her head quickly to meet his glance.