"I don't believe he ever means earthquakes and cancers," said Mis' Winslow, to her overshoes.
"Prevent 'em, then!" challenged Mis' Bates, triumphantly.
Mis' Winslow looked up. Her eyes were shining as they had shone sometimes when one of her seven-under-fifteen had given its first sign of consciousness of more than self.
"I believe we'll do it some day," she said. "I believe there's more to us than we've got any idea of. I believe there's so much to us that one of us that found out about it and told the rest would get hounded out of town. But even now, I bet there's enough to us to do something every time—something every time, no matter what. And I believe there's something we can do about this little orphaned boy's Christmas, if we nip our brains on to it in the right place."
"Oh, dear," said Mis' Moran, "sometimes when I think about Christmas I almost wish we almost hadn't done the way we're going to do."
Mis' Bates stiffened.
"Jane Moran," she said, "do you think it's right to go head over heels in debt to celebrate the birth of our Lord?"
"No," said Mis' Moran, "I don't. But—"
"And you know nobody in Old Trail Town could afford any extravagance this year?"