"I do," she said; "I could take a real fancy to it. I'll have it up on the wall. Much obliged, I'm sure. Set down a minute."
But Jenny could not do this, and Mary, the key to the barn still in her hands, followed her out. They went through the cold kitchen where the refrigerator and the ironing board and the clothes bars and all the familiar things stood in the dark. To Mary these were sunk in a great obscurity and insignificance, and even Jenny being there was unimportant beside the thing that her letter had brought to think about. They stepped out into the clear, glittering night, with its clean, white world, and its clean, dark sky on which some story was written in stars. Capella was shining almost overhead—and another star was hanging bright in the east, as if the east were always a dawning place for some new star.
"Mary!" said Jenny, there in the dark.
"You know I said I just couldn't bear not to have any Christmas—this Christmas?"
"Yes," Mary said.
"Did you know why?"
"I thought because it's your and Bruce's first—"
"No," Jenny said, "that isn't all why. It's something else."
She slipped her arm within Mary's and stood silent. And, Mary still not understanding,—