There was much to talk about. Tom had not been idle these last few days, and had a great deal to tell her about her room in the old Ralston house, where he was to take her on New Year’s day. She listened shyly, glancing up at him now and then with a happy face and starry eyes, as he described the improvements he hoped to make on the farm, and the hay he should take from the new meadow he had just bought, and the hammock he should put up for her under the elms for the long, quiet summer days.
“Only,” she broke in eagerly, “you know I must work, too, while you are in the field”—
Then she grew rosy again, and subsided into the great buffalo robes, while Tom wandered inconsequently from the subject, and the horse started ahead suddenly when he wasn’t by any means expected to, and the dark trees beside the road rustled as if they were singing softly, and—oh, dear! it was a wonderful ride altogether.
“See!” whispered Tom, pointing to the horizon just before them.
A very grave and sweet look came into the girlish face, as she followed his glance and saw the star in the east shining brightly through the swaying pine boughs.
“Christmas, Christmas,” he whispered. “Oh, my darling, what a gift He is giving me on his birthday—how much more precious than the gold and frankincense He received eighteen hundred years ago!”
So they glide along as blessed as if the poor old sleigh, with its odorous load of evergreen and holly, were a heavenly chariot bearing them away from everything low and bad and wretched in the world, until they draw near the city. The houses stand more and more closely together. A milkman passes at full trot, and, seeing the country team and its errand gives them the first jovial greeting of the day. Shutters come down, blinds fly open, boys emerge from side streets, blowing on their fingers and crying the morning papers.
“Mister, gimme some green?” one calls out now and then. And good-natured Tom turns round in his seat, pulls out a bunch of his merchandise and hands it to Charity, that she may have the pleasure of giving it away. Now they are fairly within the long, brick-walled streets, and the city is awake. Tom leaves Charity at the house of a friend and makes an engagement to call for her as soon as his load is sold (half of it has been ordered and engaged already), which will probably be at about four. He will come at five, anyway; if he should miss the hour—here he looks at her slyly and they both have a good laugh at the absurdity of the idea—she can come to the market and find him. Then they will have before them the beautiful Christmas-eve ride home: “When,” says Tom solemnly, “the little horse will probably be so tired that we will have to let him walk most of the way!”