As soon as supper was over she retired to her room—to the little room that had been hers in her childhood—where, before lighting the lamp, she sat for awhile at the open window looking out into the night, breathing long and deep of the pure air that was sweetly perfumed with the odor of the meadows and fields. In the brooding quiet; in the soft night sounds; in the fragrant breeze that gently touched her hair; she felt the old, old, forces of life calling to her womanhood and felt her womanhood stir in answer. For a long time she sat there giving free rein to the thoughts and longings that, in her city life, she was forced to suppress.
Rising at last, as though with quick resolution, she lighted her lamp and prepared for bed; loosening her hair and deftly arranging the beautiful, shining, mass that fell over her shoulders in a long braid. Then, smiling as she would have smiled at the play of a child, she knelt before her trunk and, taking something from its depth, quickly put out the light again and once more seated herself in a low rocking chair by the open window.
Had there been any one to see, they would not have understood. Who is there, indeed, to understand the heart of womanhood? The woman, sitting in the dark before the window in that room so full of the memories of her childhood, held close in her arms an ancient doll whose face had been washed so many times by its little mother that it was but a smudge of paint.
That night the woman slept as a child sleeps after a long, busy, happy, childhood day—slept to open her eyes in the morning while the birds in the trees outside her window were heralding the coming of the sun. Rising she looked and saw the sky glorious with the light of dawning day. Flaming streamers of purple and scarlet and silver floated high over the buildings and trees next door. The last of the pale stars sank into the ocean of blue and, from behind the old orchard above the house where the boy lived, long shafts of golden light shot up as if aimed by some heavenly archer hiding behind the hill.
When the day was fully come, the woman quickly dressed and went out into the yard. The grass was dew drenched and fragrant under her feet. The flowers were fresh and inviting. But she did not pause until, out in the garden, at the farther corner, close by the hedge, she stood under the cherry tree—sacred cathedral of her Yesterdays.
When she turned again to go back to the house, the woman's face was shining with the light that glows only in the faces of those women who know that they are women and who dream the dreams of womanhood.
So the woman spent her days. Down in the little valley by the brook, that, as it ran over the pebbly bars, drifted in the flickering light and shade of the willows, slipped between the green banks, or crept softly beneath the grassy arch, sang its song of the Yesterdays: up in the orchard beyond the neighboring house where so many, many, times she had helped the boy play out his dreams; on the porch, in the soft twilight, watching the stars as they blossomed above while up from the dusky shadows in the valley below came the call of the whip-poor-will and the bats on silent wings flitted to and fro; out in the garden under the cherry tree in the corner near the hedge—in all the loved haunts of the boy and girl—she spent her days.
And the tired look went out of her eyes. Strength returned to her weary body, courage to her heart, and calmness to her over-wrought nerves. Amid those scenes of her Yesterdays she was made ready to go back to the world that values so highly things that are new, and, in the strength of the old, old, things to keep the dreams of her womanhood. And, as she went, there was that in her face that all men love to see in the face of womankind.
Poor old world! Someday, perhaps, it will awake from its feverish dream to find that God made some things in the heart of the race too big to be outgrown.
The heights of Life are fortified. They are guarded by narrow passes where the world must go single file and where, if one slip from the trail, he falls into chasms of awful depths; by cliffs of apparent impassable abruptness which, if in scaling, one lose his head he is lost; and by false trails that seem to promise easy going but lead in the wrong direction. Not in careless ease are those higher levels gained. The upward climb is one of strenuous effort, of desperate struggle, of hazardous risk. Only those who prove themselves fit may gain the top.
Somewhere in the life of every man there is a testing time. There is a trial to prove of what metal he is made. There is a point which, won or lost, makes him winner or loser in the game. There is a Temptation that to him is vital.
To pray: "Lead us not into temptation," is divine wisdom for Temptation lies in wait. There is no need to seek it. And, when once it is met, there is no dodging the issue or shifting the burden of responsibility. In the greatest gifts that men possess are the seeds which, if grown and cultivated, yield poisonous fruit. In the very forces that men use for greatest good are the elements of their own destruction. And, whatever the guise in which Temptation comes, the tempter is always the same—Self. Temptation spells always the mastery of or the surrender to one's self.
Once I stood on a mighty cliff with the ocean at my feet. Ear below, the waves broke with a soothing murmur that scarce could reach my ears and the gray gulls were playing here and there like shadows of half forgotten dreams. In the distance, the fishing boats rolled lazily on the gentle swell and the sunlight danced upon the surface of the sea. Then, as I looked, on the far horizon the storm chieftain gathered his clans for war. I saw the red banners flashing. I watched the hurried movements of the dark and threatening ranks. I heard the rumbling tread of the tramping feet. And, like airy messengers sent to warn me, the gusts of wind came racing and wailed and sobbed about the cliff because I would not heed their warning. The startled boats in the offing spread their white wings and scurried to the shelter of their harbor nests. The gray gulls vanished. The sunlight danced no more upon the surface of the sea. And then, as the battle front rolled above my head, the billows, lashed to fury by the wind and flinging in the air the foam of their own madness, came rushing on to try their strength against the grim and silent rock. Again and again they hurled their giant forms upon the cliff, until the roar of the surf below drowned even the thunder in the clouds above and the solid earth trembled with the shock, but their very strength was their ruin and they were dashed in impotent spray from the stalwart object of their assault. And at last, when the hours of the struggle were over; when the storm soldiers had marched on to their haunts behind the hills; when the gulls had returned to their sports; and the sun shone again on the waters; I saw the bosom of the ocean rise and fall like the breast of an angry child exhausted with its passion while the cliff, standing stern and silent, seemed to look, with mingled pride and pity, upon its foe now moaning at its feet.
Like that cliff, I say, is the soul of a man who, in temptation, gains the mastery of himself. The storm clouds of life may gather darkly over his head but he shall not tremble. The lightning of the world's wrath and the thunder of man's disapproval shall not move him. The waves of passion that so try the strength of men shall be dashed in impotent spray from his stalwart might. And when, at last, the storms of life are over—when the sun shines again on the waters as it shone before the fight began—he shall still stand, calm and unmoved, master of himself and men.
Because those things are true, I say: that Temptation is one of theThirteen Truly Great Things of Life.
And the man knew these things—knew them as well as you know them. In the full knowledge of these things he came to his testing time. To win or to lose, in the full knowledge of all that victory or defeat meant to him, he went to his Temptation.
It was early winter when his time came but he knew that first morning after he had returned from his vacation that it was coming. The moment he entered the room to take up again the task of putting his dreams into action, he saw her and felt her power for she was one of those women who compel recognition of their sex as the full noonday sun compels recognition of its light and heat.
An hour later her duties brought her to him, and, for a few moments, they stood face to face. And the man, while he instructed her in the work that she was to do, felt the strength of her power even as a strong swimmer feels the current of the stream. Through her eyes, in her voice, in her presence, this woman challenged the man, made him more conscious of her than of his work. The subtle, insinuating, luring, strength of her beat upon him, enveloped him, thrilled him. As she turned to go back to her place, his eyes followed her and he knew that he was approaching a great crisis in his life. He knew that soon or late he would be forced into a battle with himself and that tremendous stakes would be at issue. He knew that victory would give him increased power, larger capacity, and a firmer grip upon the enduring principles of life or defeat would make of him a slave, with enfeebled spirit, humiliated and ashamed.
Every day, in the weeks that followed, the man was forced to see her—to talk with her—to feel her strength. And every day he felt himself carried irresistibly onward toward the testing that he knew must come. He was conscious, too, that the woman, also, knew and understood and that it pleased her so to use her power. She willed that he should feel her presence. In a thousand subtle forms she repeated her challenge. In ways varied without number she called to him, lured him, led him. To do this seemed a necessity to her. She was one of those women whose natures seem to demand this expression of themselves. Instinctively, she made all men with whom she came in contact feel her power and, instinctively—unconsciously, perhaps—she gloried in her strength.
If the man could have had other things in common with her it would have been different. If there had been, as well, the appeal of the intellect—of the spirit—if the beauty of her had been to him an expression of something more than her sex—if there had been ideals, hopes, longings, fears, even sorrow or regret, common to both, it would have been different. But there was nothing. Often the man sought to find something more but there was nothing. So he permitted himself to be carried onward by a current against which, when the time should come, he knew he would need to fight with all his might. And always, as the current swept him onward toward the point where he must make the decisive struggle, he felt the woman's power over him growing ever greater.
At last it came.
It was Saturday. The man left the place where he worked earlier than usual that he might walk to his rooms for he felt the need of physical action. He felt a strong desire to run, to leap, to use his splendid muscles that throbbed and exulted with such vigorous life. As he strode along the streets, beyond the business district, he held his head high, he looked full into the faces of the people he met with a bold challenging look. The cool, bracing air, of early winter was grateful on his glowing skin and he drank long deep breaths of it as one would drink an invigorating tonic. Every nerve and fiber of him was keenly, gloriously, alive with the strength of his splendid manhood. Every nerve and fiber of him was conscious of her and exulted in that which he had seen in her eyes when she had told him that she would be at home that evening and that she would be glad to have him call. With all his senses abnormally alert, he saw and noted everything about him. A thousand trivial, commonly unseen things, along his way and in the faces, dress, and manner, of the people whom he met, caught his eye. Yet, always, vividly before him, was the face of her whose power he had felt. Under it all, he was conscious that this was his testing time. Heknew—or it would have been no Temptation—it would have been no trial. Impatiently he glanced at his watch and, as he neared the place where he lived, quickened his stride, springing up the steps of the house at last with a burst of eager haste.
In the front hall, at the foot of the stairs, the little daughter of his landlady greeted him with shouts of delight and, with the masterful strength of four feminine years, dragged him, a willing captive, through the open door to her mother's pleasant sitting room. She was a beautiful, dainty, little miss with hair and eyes very like that playmate of the man's Yesterdays and it was his custom to pay tribute to her charms in the coin of childhood as faithfully and as regularly as he paid his board.
Seated now, with the baby on his lap and the smiling mother looking on, he produced, after the usual pretense of denial and long search through many pockets, the weekly offering. And then, as though some guardian angel willed it so, the little girl did a thing that she had never done before. Putting two plump and dimpled arms about his neck she said gravely: "Mamma don't like me to kiss folks, you know, but she said she wouldn't care if I kissedyou" Whereupon a sweet little rosebud mouth was offered trustingly, with loving innocence, to his lips.
A crimson flame flushed the man's face. With a laugh of embarrassment and a quick impulsive hug he held the child close and accepted her offering.
Then he went quickly upstairs to his room.
It was sometime later when the man began to prepare for the evening to which he had looked forward with such eagerness and all his fierce and driving haste was gone. The mad tumult of his manhood strength was stilled. He moved, now, with a purpose, sullen, grim, defiant. The fight was on. While he was still vividly conscious of the woman whose compelling power he felt, he felt, now, as well, the pure touch of those baby lips. While he still saw the light in the woman's eyes and sensed the meaning of her smile, he saw and sensed as clearly the loving innocence that had shown in the little girl's face as it was lifted up to his. Upon his manhood's strength lay the woman's luring spell. Upon his manhood the baby's kiss lay as a seal of sacredness—upon his lips it burned as a coal of holy fire. The fight was on.
The man's life was not at all an easy life. Beside his work and his memories there was little to hold him true. Since that day when he stood face to face with Life and, for the first time, knew that he was a man, he had been, save for a few friends among the men of his own class, alone. The exacting demands of his work had left him little time or means to spend in seeking social pleasures or in the delights of fellowship with those for whose fellowship he would have cared, even had the way to their society been, at that period of his life, open to him. He told himself, always, that sometime in the future, when he had worked out still farther his dreams, he would find the way to the social life that he would enjoy but until then, he must, of necessity, live much alone. And now—now—the testing time—the crisis in his life—had come. Even as it must come to every man who knows his manhood so it had come to him.
The man was not deceived. He knew the price he would pay in defeat. But, even while he knew this—even while he knew what defeat would mean to him, so great was her power that he went on making ready to go to her. With the kiss of the little girl upon his lips he made ready to go to the woman. It was as though he had drifted too far and the current had become too strong for him to turn back. Thus do such men yield to such temptations. Thus are men betrayed by the very strength of their manhood.
With mad determination he waited the hour. Uneasily he paced his room. He tried to read. He threw himself into a chair only to arise and move about again. Every few moments he impatiently consulted his watch. At every step in the hall, without his door, he started as if alarmed. He became angry, in a blind rage, with the woman, with himself and even with the little girl. At last, when it was time to go, he threw on his overcoat, took his hat and gloves, and, with a long, careful look about the room, laid his hand on the door. He knew that the man who was going out that evening would not come hack to his room the same man. He knew thatthatman could never come back. He felt as though he was giving up his apartments to a stranger. So he hesitated, with his hand upon the door, looking long and carefully about. Then quickly he threw open the door and, down the hall and down the stairs, went as one who has counted the cost and determined recklessly.
[Illustration: Two dimpled arms went around his neck]
The man had opened the front door and was about to pass out when a sweet voice called: "Wait, oh, wait."
Turning, he saw a tiny figure in white flying toward him.
The little girl, all ready for bed, had caught sight of him and, for the moment, had escaped from her mother's attention.
The man shut the door and caught her up. Two dimpled arms went around his neck and the rosebud mouth was lifted to his lips.
Then the mother came and led her away while the man stood watching her as she went.
Would he ever dare touch those baby lips again he wondered. Could he, he asked himself, could he face again those baby eyes? Could he ever again bear the feeling of that soft little body in his arms?
At the farther end of the hall, she turned, and, seeing him still there, waved her hand with a merry call: "Good-bye, good-bye."
Then she passed from his sight and, in place of this little girl of rosy, dimpled, flesh, the startled man saw a dainty maiden of his Yesterdays, standing under a cherry tree with fallen petals of the delicate blossoms in her wayward hair, and with eyes that looked at him very gravely and a little frightened as, for the shaggy coated minister, he spoke the solemn words: "I pronounce you husband and wife and anything that God has done must never be done any different by anybody forever and ever, Amen." By some holy magic the kiss of the little girl became the kiss of his play wedding wife of the long ago.
Very slowly the man went up the stairs again to his room; there to spend the evening not as he had planned, when he was in the mastering grip of self, but safe in the quiet harbor of the Yesterdays where the storms of life break not or are felt only in those gentle ripples that scarce can stir the surface of the sea.
The fierce passion that had shaken the very soul of him passed on as the storm clouds pass. In the calm of the days that were gone, he rested as one who has fought a good fight and, safe from out the turmoil and the danger, has come victoriously into the peace that passeth all understanding.
In the sweet companionship of his childhood mate, with the little girl who lived next door, the man found again, that night, his better self. In the boy of the long-ago, he found again his ideals of manhood. In his Yesterdays, he found strength to stand against the power of the temptation that assailed him.
Blessed, blessed Yesterdays!
* * * * *
It was the time of the first snow when, again, the woman sat alone in her room before the fire, with her door fast locked and the shades drawn close, even as on that other night—the night when her womanhood began in dreams.
In the soft dusk, while the shadows of the flickering light came and went upon the walls, and the quiet was broken only by the tick, tick, tick, of the timepiece held in the chubby arms of the fat cupid on the mantle, the woman sat very still. Face to face with her Temptation, she sat alone and very still.
For several months, the woman had seen her testing time approaching. That day when, looking into her eyes, the man of authority had so kindly bidden her leave her work for the afternoon, she had known that this time would come. In the passing weeks she had realized that the day was approaching when she must decide both for him and for herself. She had not sought to prevent the coming of that day. She had knowingly permitted it to come. She was even pleased in a way to watch it drawing near. Not once, in those weeks, had he failed to be very kind or ceased to make her feel that he understood. In a hundred ways, as their work called them together and gave opportunity, he had told her, in voice and look and the many ways of wordless speech, that the time was coming. He had been very careful, too—very careful—that, in their growing friendship, the world should have no opportunity to misjudge. And the woman, seeing his care, was grateful and valued his friendship the more.
So had come at last that Saturday when, with low spoken words, at the close of the day's work, he had asked if he might call upon her the following evening; saying gravely, as he looked down into her face, that he had something very important to tell her. And she had gravely said that he might come; while her blushes to him confessed that she knew what it was of importance that he would say.
Scarcely had she reached her home that afternoon when a messenger boy appeared with a great armful of roses and, as she arranged the flowers on her table, burying her flushed face again and again in their fragrant coolness, she had told herself that to-morrow, when he asked her to cross with him the threshold of that old, old door, she would answer: yes. But, even as she so resolved, she had been conscious of something in her heart that denied the resolution of her mind.
And so it was that, as she sat alone before her fire that night, she knew that she was face to face with a crisis in her life. So it was that she had come to the testing time and knew that she must win or lose alone. In the sacred privacy of her room, with the perfume of his roses filling the air and the certainty that when he came on the morrow she must answer, she looked into the future to see, if she might, what it held for her and for him if she should cross with him the threshold of that old, old, door.
He was a man whose love would honor any woman—this she knew. And he was a man of power and influence in the world—a man who could provide for his mate a home of which any woman would be proud to be the mistress. Nor could she doubt his love for nothing else could have persuaded such a man to ask of a woman that which he was coming to ask of her.
Beginning with her answer on the following evening the woman traced, in thought, all that would follow. She saw herself leaving the life that she had never desired because it could not recognize her womanhood and, in fancy, received the congratulations of her friends. She lived, in her imagination, those busy days when she would be making ready for the day that was to come. Very clearly, she pictured to herself the wedding; it would be a quiet wedding, she told herself, but as beautiful and complete as cultured taste and wealth could make it. Then they would go away, for a time, to those cities and lands beyond the sea that, all her life, she had longed to visit. When they returned, it would be to that beautiful old home of his family—the home that she had so often, in passing, admired; and in that home, so long occupied by him alone, she would be the proud mistress. And then—then—would come her children—their children—and so all the fulfillment of her womanhood's dreams.
But the woman's face, as she looked into a future that seemed as bright as ever woman dared to dream, was troubled. As she traced the way that lay so invitingly before her, this woman, who knew herself to be a woman, was sad. Her heart, still, was as an empty room—a room that is furnished and ready but without a tenant. Deep within her woman heart she knew that this man was not the one for whom she waited by the open door. She did not know who it was for whom she waited. She knew only that this man was not the one. And she wished—oh, how she wished—that this was not so. Because of her longing—because of the dreams of her womanhood—because of her empty heart—she was resolved to cross with this man, who was not the man for whom she waited, the threshold that she could not cross alone. Honor, regard, respect, the affection of a friend, she could give him—did give him indeed—but she knew that this was not enough for a woman to give the man with whom she would enter that old, old, door.
Rising, the woman went to her mirror to study long and carefully the face and form that she saw reflected there. She saw in the glass, a sweet, womanly, beauty, expressing itself in the color and tone of the clean carved features; in the dainty texture of the clear skin and soft, brown, hair; and in the rounded fullness and graceful lines of the finely moulded body. Perfect physical strength and health was there—vital, glowing, appealing. And culture of mind, trained intelligence, thoughtfulness, was written in that womanly face. And, with it all, there was good breeding, proud blood, with gentleness of spirit.
This woman knew that she was well equipped to stand by this man's side however high his place in life. She was well fitted to become the mistress of his home and the mother of his children. She had guarded well the choicest treasures of her womanhood. She had squandered none of the wealth that was committed to her. She had held it all as a sacred trust to be kept by her for that one with whom she should go through the old, old door. And she had determined that, to-morrow evening, she would give herself, with all the riches of her womanhood, to this one who could give her, in return, the home of her dreams. While her heart was still as an empty room, she had determined to cross, with this man, the threshold over which no woman may again return.
Turning from her mirror, slowly the woman went to the great bunch of roses that stood upon her table. They were his roses; and they fitly expressed, in their costly beauty, the life that he was coming to offer to her. Very deliberately she bent over them, burying her face in the mass of rich color, inhaling deeply their heavy fragrance. Thoughtfully she considered them and all that, to her, they symbolized. But there was no flush upon her cheek now. There was no warmth in the light of her eyes. No glad excitement thrilled her. There was no trembling in her touch—no eager joyousness in her manner.
Suddenly, some roisterer, passing along the street with his companions, laughed a loud, reckless, half drunken, laugh that sounded in the quiet darkness with startling clearness.
The woman sprang back from the flowers as though a poisonous serpent, hidden in their fragrant beauty, had struck her. With a swift look of horror on her white face she glanced fearfully about the room.
Again the laugh sounded; this time farther down the street.
The woman sank into her chair, trembling with a nameless fear. To her, that laugh in the dark had sounded as the laughter of the crowd that day when she was forced so close to the outcast women who were in the hands of the police.
"But those women," argued the frightened woman with herself, "sell themselves to all men for a price."
"And you," answered the heart of her womanhood, "and you, also, will sell yourself to one man, for a price. The wealth of womanhood committed to you—all the treasures that you have guarded so carefully—you will sell now to this good man for the price that he can pay. If he could not pay the price—if he came to you empty handed—would you say yes?"
"But I will be true to him," argued the woman. "I will give myself to him and to him only as wife to husband."
"You are being false to him already," replied her woman heart, "for you are selling yourself, not giving yourself to him. You are planning to deceive him. You would make him think that he is taking to himself a wife when, for a price, you are selling to him—something higher than a public woman, it is true—but something, as true, very much lower than a wife. What matter whether the price be in gold and silver or in property and social position—it is a price. Except he pay you your price he could not have you."
And what, thought the woman, what if—after she had crossed the threshold with this good man—after she had entered with him into the life that lay on the other side that door—what if, then, that other one should come? What if the one for whom her empty heart should have waited were to come and stand alone before that door through which she could not go back? And the children—the dear children of her dreams—what of them? Had not her unborn children the right to demand that they be born in love? And if she should say, "no," to this man—if she should turn once more away from the open door, through which he would ask her to go with him—what then? What if that one who had delayed his coming so long should never come?
And then the woman, who knew herself to be a woman, saw the lonely years come and go. While she waited without the door that led to the life of her womanhood's dreams, she saw the beauty that her mirror revealed slowly fading—saw her firm, smooth, cheeks become thin and wrinkled, her bright eyes grow dim and pale, her soft, brown, hair turn thin and gray, her body grow lean and stooped. All the wealth of her womanhood that she had treasured with such care she saw become as dust, worthless. All the things of her womanhood she would be forced to spend in that life that denied her womanhood, and then, when she had nothing left, she would be cast aside as a worn out machine. Never to know the joy of using her womanhood! Never to have a home! Never to feel the touch of a baby hand! To lay down the wealth of her woman life and go empty and alone in her shriveled old age! With an exclamation, the woman sprang to her feet and stretched out her arms. "No, no, no," she whispered fiercely, "anything, anything, but that. I will be true to him. I will be a faithful wife. He shall never know. He shall not feel that he is cheated. And perhaps—" she dropped into her chair again and buried her face in her hands as she whispered—"perhaps, bye and bye, God will let me love him. Surely, God will let me love him, bye and bye."
Sometime later, the woman did a strange thing. Going to her desk, softly, as a thief might go, she unlocked a drawer and took from it a small jewel case. For several moments she stood under the light holding the little velvet box in her hand unopened. Then, lifting the lid, she looked within and, presently, from among a small collection of trinkets that had no value save to her who knew their history, took a tiny brass ring. Placing the box on the dresser, she tried, musingly, to fit the little ring on her finger. On each finger in turn she tried, but it would go only part way on the smallest one; and she smiled sadly to see how she had grown since that day under the cherry tree.
Turning again, she went slowly across the room to the fire that now was a bed of glowing coals. For a little she stood looking down into the fire. Then, slowly, she stretched forth her hand to drop the ring. But she could not do it. She could not.
Returning the little circle of brass to its place among the trinkets in the jewel box, the woman prepared for bed.
The timepiece in the arms of the fat cupid ticked loudly now in the darkness that was only faintly relieved by the glowing embers of the fire.
With sleepless eyes the woman who had determined to give herself without love lay staring into the dusk. But she did not see the darkness. She did not see the grotesque and ghostly objects in the gloom. Nor did she see the somber shadows that came and went as the dying fire gained fitful strength. The woman saw the bright sun shining on the meadows and fields of the long ago. She saw again the scenes of her childhood. Again, as she stood under the cherry tree that showered its delicate blossoms down with every puff of air, she looked with loving confidence into the face of the brown cheeked boy who spoke so seriously those childish vows. Again, upon her lips she felt that kiss of the childhood mating.
The soft light of the fire grew fainter and fainter as the embers slowly turned to ashes. Could it be that the woman, in her temptation, would let the sacred fire of love burn altogether out? Must the memories of her Yesterdays turn to ashes too?
The last faint glow was almost gone when the woman slipped quickly out of her bed and, in the darkness, groped her way across the room to the desk where she found the little jewel case.
And I think that the fat cupid who was neglecting his bow and arrows to wrestle with time must have been pleased to see the woman, a little later, when the dying fire flared out brightly for a moment, lying fast asleep, while, upon the little finger of the hand that lay close to her smiling lips, there was a tiny circle of brass.
In childhood, the Master of Life exalts Life. A baby in its mother's arms is the fullest expression of Divinity.
It was Christmas time; that season of the year when, for a brief period, the world permits the children to occupy the place in the affairs and thoughts of men that is theirs by divine right.
In the birth of that babe in Bethlehem, the Giver of Life placed the seal of his highest approval upon childhood and decreed that, until the end of time, babies should be the true rulers of mankind and the lawful heirs of heaven. And it is so, that the power of Mary's babe, from his manger cradle throne, has been more potent on earth in the governments of men than the strength of many emperors with their armed hosts.
It is written large in Nature's laws that mankind should be governed by love of children. The ruling purpose and passion of the race can be, with safety, nothing less than the purpose and passion of all created things—of even the trees and plants—the purpose to reproduce its kind—the passion for its offspring. The world should be ruled by boys and girls.
But Mammon has usurped the throne of Life. His hosts have trampled the banners of loyal love in the dust. His forces have compelled the rightful rulers of the world to abdicate. But, even as gross materialism has never succeeded in altogether denying Divinity, so, for a few days each year, at Christmas time, childhood asserts its claims and compels mankind to render, at least a show, of homage.
Poor, blind, deceived and betrayed, old world; to so fear a foolish and impotent anarchism that spends its strength in vain railings against governments while you pay highest honors and present your choicest favors to those traitors who filch your wealth of young life under pretense of loyal service. The real anarchists, old world, are not those who loudly vociferate to the rabble on the street corners but those who, operating under the laws of your approval, betray their country in its greatest need—its need of children. The real anarchists, old world, are those whose banners are made red by the blood of babies; who fatten upon the labor of their child slaves; and who seek to rule by the slaughter of children even as that savage of old whose name in history is hated by every lover of the race. Regicides at heart, they are, for they kill, for a price, the God ordained rulers of mankind. A child is nearer, by many years, to God than the grown up rebel who traitorously holds his own mean interests superior to the holy will of Life as vested in the sacred person of a boy or girl.
To prate, in empty swelling words, of the sacredness of life, the power of religion, the dignity of state, the importance of commercial interests and the natural wealth of the nation, while ignoring the sacredness, power, dignity, importance, and wealth of childhood, is evidence of a criminal thoughtlessness.
Children and Life are one. They are the product, the producers, and the preservers of Life. They exalt Life. They interpret Life. Without them Life has no meaning. The child is no more the possession of its parents than the parents are the property of the child. Children are the just creditors of the human race. Mankind owes them everything. They owe mankind nothing. A baby has no debts.
Nor is the passion for children satisfied only in bearing them. A woman who does not loveallbabies is unsafe to trust with one of her own flesh. A man who does not loveallchildren is unfit to father offspring of his own blood. One need not die to orphan a child. One need only refuse to care for it. One need only place other interests first. Men and women who desire to become parents will not go unsatisfied in a world that is so full of boys and girls for whom there are neither fathers nor mothers.
The Master of Life said: "Except ye become as little children." His false disciple—world—teaches: "Except ye become grown up." But the laws of Life are irrevocable. If a man, heeding the world, grows up to possess the earth, his holdings, at the last, are reduced—if he be one of earth's big men—to six feet of it, only; while the man who never grows up inherits a heaven that the false kings of earth know not.
When the man left his work, at close of the day before Christmas, he was as eager as he had been that Saturday when he faced the crisis of his life. With every sense keenly alive, he plunged into the throng of belated shoppers that filled the streets and crowded into the gaily decked stores until it overflowed into the streets again. Nearly everyone was carrying bundles and packages for it was too late, now, to depend upon the overworked delivery wagons. In almost every face, the Christmas gladness shone. In nearly every voice, there was that spirit of fellowship and cheery good will that is invoked by Christmas thoughts and plans. Through the struggling but good natured crowd, the man worked his way into a store and, when he forced his way out again, his arms, too, were full. For a moment he waited on the corner for a car then, with a look of smiling dismay at the number of people who were also waiting, he turned away, determined to walk. He felt, too, that the exercise in the keen air would be a relief to the buoyant strength and gladness that clamored for expression.
As he swung so easily along the snowy pavement, with the strength of his splendid manhood revealed in every movement and the cleanness of his heart and mind illuminating his countenance, there were many among those he met who, while they smiled in sympathy with his spirit, passed from their smiles to half sighs of envy and regret.
With the impatient haste of a boy, the man dashed up the steps of his boarding house and ran up stairs to his room; chuckling in triumph over his escape from the watchful eyes of the little daughter of the house. For the first time since his boyhood the man was to have the blessed privilege of sharing the Christmas cheer of a home.
When the evening meal was over and it was time for his little playmate to go to sleep, he retired again to his room, almost as excited, in his eager impatience for the morning, as the child herself. Safe behind his closed door, he began to unwrap his Christmas packages and parcels that he might inspect again his purchases and taste, by anticipation, the pleasure he would know when on the morrow the child would discover his gifts. Very carefully he cut the strings from the last and largest package and, tenderly removing the wrappings, revealed a doll almost as tall as the little girl herself. It was as large, at least, as a real flesh and blood baby.
The wifeless, homeless, man who has never purchased a doll for some little child mother has missed an educational experience of more value than many of the things that are put in text books to make men wise.
Rather awkwardly the man held the big doll in his arms, smoothing its dress and watching the eyes that opened and closed so lifelike; cautiously he felt for and found that vital spot which if pressed brought forth a startling: "papa—mama."
As the dear familiar words of childhood sounded in the lonely bachelor room, the man felt a queer something grip his heart. Tenderly he laid the doll upon his big bed and stood for a little looking down upon it; a half-serious, half-whimsical, expression on his face but in his eyes a tender light. Then, adjusting his reading lamp, he seated himself and attempted to busy his strangely disturbed mind with a book. But the sentences were meaningless. At every period, his eyes turned to that little figure on the bed, with its too lifelike face and hair and form while the thoughts of the author he was trying to read were crowded out by other thoughts that forced themselves upon him with a persistency and strength that would not be denied.
The weeks following the testing of the man had been to him very wonderful weeks. He seemed to be living in a new world, or, rather, for him, the same old world was wonderfully enriched and glorified. Never had he felt his manhood's strength stirring so within him. Never had his mind been so alert, his spirit so bold. He moved among men with a new power that was felt by all who came in touch with him; though no one knew what it was. He was conscious of a fuller mastery of his work; a clearer grasp of the world events. As one, climbing in the mountains, reaches a point higher than he has ever before attained and gains thus a wider view of the path he has traveled, of the surrounding country, and of the peak that is the object of his climb as well, so this man, in his life climb, had reached a higher point and therefore gained a wider outlook. It is only when men stay in the lowlands of self interest or abide in the swamps of self indulgence that their views of life are narrowly circumscribed. Let a man master himself but once and he stands on higher ground, with wider outlook, with keener vision, and clearer atmosphere.
The man had always seen Life in its relation to himself; he came, now, to consider his own life in its relation to all Life; which point of view has all the difference that lies between a low valley and the mountain peaks that shut it in. He felt his relation, too, not alone to all human life but to all created things. With everything that lived he felt himself kin. With the very dray horses on the street, dragging with patient courage their heavily loaded trucks; with the stray dog that dodged in and out among the wheels and hoofs of the crowded traffic; even with the sparrow that perched for a moment on the ledge outside the window near his desk, he felt a kinship that was new and strange. Had they not all, he reflected, horse and dog and sparrow and man—had they not all one thing in common—Life? Was not Life the one thing supreme to each? Were they not, each one, a part of the whole? Was not the supreme object of every life, of all life, to live? Is the life of a man, he asked himself, more mysterious than the life of a horse? Can science—blind, pretentious, childish science—explain the life of a dog with less uncertainty than it can explain the life of a man? Or can the scientist make a laboratory sparrow more easily than he can produce a laboratory man? With the very trees that lined the streets near where he lived, he felt a kinship for they, too, within their trunks and limbs, had life—they, too, were parts of the whole even as he was a part—they, too, belonged even as he belonged.
Thus the man saw Life from a loftier height than he had ever before attained. Thus he sensed, as never before, the bigness, the fullness, the grandness, the awfulness, of Life. And so the man became very humble with a proud humbleness. He became very proud with a humble pride. He became even as a child again.
And then, standing thus upon this new height that he had gained, the man looked back into the ages that were gone and forward into the ages that were to come and so saw himself and his age a link between the past and the future; linking that which had been to that which was to be. All that Life had ever been—the sum of all since the unknown beginning—was in the present. In the present, also, was all that Life could ever be, even unto the unknown end. Within his age and within himself he felt stirring all the mighty forces that, since the beginning, had wrought in the making of man. Within his age and within himself he felt the forces that would work out in the race results as far beyond his present vision as his age was beyond the ages of the most distant past.
Since the day when he had first realized his manhood, the working out of his dreams had been to the man the supreme object of his life. He had put his life, literally, into his work. For his work he had lived. But that Christmas eve, when his mind and heart were so filled with thoughts of childhood and those new emotions were aroused within him, he saw that the supreme thing in his life must be Life itself. He saw that not by putting his life into his work, would he most truly live, but by making his work contribute to his life. He realized that the greatest achievements of man are but factors in Life—that the one supreme, dominant, compelling, purpose of Life is tolive—tolive—tolive—to express itself in Life—that the only adequate expression of LifeisLife—that the passion of Life is to pass itself on—from age to age, from generation to generation, in a thousand thousand forms, in a thousand thousand ages, in a thousand thousand peoples, Life had passed itself on—was even then passing itself on—seeking ever fuller expression of itself; seeking ever to perfect itself; seeking ever to produce itself. He saw that the things that men do come out of their lives even as the plants come out of the soil into which the seed is dropped; and, that, even as the dead and decaying plant goes back into the earth from which it came, to enrich and renew the ground, so man's work, that comes out of his life, is reabsorbed again into his life to enrich and renew it. He realized, now, that the object of his life must be not his work but Life itself—that his effort must be not to do but to be—that he must accomplish not a great work but a great Life.
It was inevitable that the man should come to see, also, that the supreme glory of his manhood's strength was in this: the reproduction of his kind. The man life that ran so strongly in his veins, that throbbed so exultantly in his splendid body, that thrilled so keenly in his nerves—the man life that he had from his parents and from countless generations before—the life that made him kin to all his race and to all created things—this life he must pass on. This was the supreme glory of his manhood: that he could pass it on—that he could give it to the ages that were to come.
From the heights which he attained that Christmas eve, the man laughed at the empty, swelling, words of those who talk about the sacredness of work—who prattle as children about leaving a great work when they are gone—who gibber as fools about contributing a great work to the world.
If the men of a race will perfect the manhood strength of the race; if they will exalt their manhood power; if they will fulfill the mission of life by perfecting and producing ever more perfect lives; if they will endeavor to contribute to the ages to come stronger, better, men than themselves; why, the work of the world will be done—even as the plant produces its flowers and fruit, the work of the world will be done. In the exaltation of Life is the remedy for the evils that threaten the race. The reformations that men are always attempting in the social, religious, political, and industrial world are but attempts to change the flavor or quality of the fruit when it is ripening on the tree. The true remedy lies in the life of the tree; in the soil from which it springs; in the source from which the fruit derives its quality and flavor. In the appreciation of Life, in the passion of Life, in the production of Life, in the perfection of Life, in the exaltation of Life, is the salvation of human kind. For this, and this alone, man has right to live—has right to his place and part in Life.
All this the man saw that Christmas eve because the kiss of the little girl, on that night of his temptation, had awakened something in his manhood that was greater than the dreams he had been denying himself to work out. The friendship of the child had revealed to him this deeper truth of Life; that there are, for all true men, accomplishments greater than the rewards of labor. The baby had taught him that the legitimate fruit of love is more precious to Life, by far, than the wealth and honors that the world bestows—that, indeed, the greatest wealth, the highest honors, are not in the power of the world to give; nor are they to be won by toil. In his thinking, this man, too, was led by a little child.
The man's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door.
It was the little girl's mother; to tell him, as she had promised, that the child was safely asleep.
With his arms filled with presents, the man went softly down the stairs.
When all had been arranged for the morning, the man returned again to his room; but not to sleep. There was in his heart a feeling of reverent pride and gladness, as though he had been permitted to assist in a religious rite, and, with his own hands, to place an offering upon a sacred altar. And, if you will understand me, the man was right. Whatever else Christmas has come to mean to the grown up world, its true meaning can be nothing less than this.
Nor did the man again turn to his book or attempt to take up the train of thought that had so interfered with his reading. Something more compelling than any printed page—something more insistant than his own thoughts of Life and its meaning—lured him far away from his grown up days—took him back again into his days that were gone. Alone in his room that Christmas eve, the man went back, once more, to his Yesterdays—back to a Christmas in his Yesterdays.
Once again, his boyhood home was the scene of busy preparations for the Christmas gaieties. Once again, the boy, tucked snugly under the buffalo robe, drove with his parents away through the white fields to the distant town while the music in his heart kept time to the melody of the jingling bells. Once again, he experienced the happy perplexity of selecting—with mother's help—a present for father while father obligingly went to see a man on business and of choosing—with father's assistance—a gift for mother while she rested in a far corner of the store. And then, once again, he faced the trying question: what should he get for the little girl who lived next door. What, indeed,couldhe get forherbut a beautiful new doll—one with brown hair, very like the little girl's own, and brown eyes that opened and closed as natural as life.
The next day the boy went, with his father and the little girl and her uncle, in the big sleigh, to the woods to find a tree for the Christmas "exercises" at the church; and, in the afternoon, in company with the older people, helped to make the wreaths of evergreen and deck the tree with glittering tinsel; while the little girl strung long strings of snowy pop corn and labored earnestly at the sweet task of filling mosquito bar stockings with candy and nuts.
Then came that triumphant Christmas eve, when, before the assembled Sunday school and the crowded church, the boy took part, with his class, in the entertainment and sat, with wildly beating heart, while the little girl, all alone, sang a Christmas carol; and proud he was, indeed, when the applause for the little singer was so long and loud. And then, when the farmer Santa Claus had distributed the last stocking of candy, the boy and the girl, with their elders, went home together, in the clear light of the stars; while, across the white fields, came the sound of gay laughter and happy voices mingled with the ringing music of the sleigh bells—growing fainter and fainter—as friends and neighbors went their several ways.
But, best of all—by far the best of all—was that Christmas morning at home. At the first hint of gray light in the winter sky, the boy was awake and out of bed to gather his Christmas harvest; hailing each toy and game and book with exclamations of delight and arousing all the house with his shouts of: "Merry Christmas."
The foolish, grown up, old world has a saying that we value most the things that we win for ourselves by toil and hardship; but, believe me, it is not so. The real treasures of earth are the things that are won by the toil of those who bring to us, without price, the fruits of their labor as tokens of their love.
Very early, that long ago Christmas morning, the boy went over to the little girl's house; for his happiness would not be complete until he could share it with her. And the man, who, alone in his bachelor room that Christmas eve, dreamed of his Yesterdays, saw again, with startling clearness, his boyhood mate as she stood in the doorway greeting him with shouts of, "Merry Christmas," as he went toward her through the snow; and the heart of the man beat quicker at the lovely vision—even as the heart of the boy—for she held, close in her little mother arms, the new addition to her family of dolls—his gift. The lonely man, that night, realized, as he had never realized before, how full, at that moment, was the cup of the boy's proud happiness. He realized and understood.
I wonder—do you, also, understand?
In the still house, the big clock in the lower hall struck the hour. The man in his lonely room listened, counting the strokes—nine—ten—eleven—twelve.
It was Christmas.
* * * * *
And the woman, also, when she had passed safely through her trial, looked out upon Life from a point higher than she had ever reached before. Never before had Life, to her, looked so wide.
But the woman did not feel stronger after the crisis through which she had passed; she felt, more keenly than before, her weakness. More than ever, she felt the need of a strength that she could not find within herself. More than ever, she was afraid of the Life, that, from where she now stood, seemed so wide. Nor did she feel a kinship with all Life. She stood on higher ground, indeed, but the wideness of the view, to her, only emphasized her loneliness. She sadly felt herself as one apart—as one denied the right of fellowship. More keenly than ever before, she felt, in the heart of her womanhood, the humiliation of the life that sets a price upon the things of womanhood while it refuses to recognize womanhood itself. More than ever, in her woman heart, she was ashamed. Neither could she feel that she was doing her part in Life—that she was taking her place—that she was a link joining the ages of the past to the ages that would come. She felt herself, rather, a parasite, attached to Life—not a part of—not belonging to—but feeding upon.
This woman who knew herself to be a woman saw, more clearly than ever before, that one thing, only, could give her full fellowship with the race. She saw that one thing, only, could make her a link between the ages that were gone and the ages that were to come. That one thing, only, could satisfy her woman heart—could make her feel that she was not alone.
That one thing which the woman recognized as supreme is the thing which the Master of Life has committed peculiarly to womanhood. Not to woman's skillful hands; not to her ready brain; not to the things of her womanhood upon which the world into which she goes alone to labor puts a price has the Master of Life committed this supreme thing; but to herwomanhood—her sex. In the womanhood that is denied by the world that receives womankind alone, is wealth that may not be bought by any price that the world can pay. In the womanhood of women is that supreme thing without which human life would perish from the earth. The exercise of this power alone can give to woman the high place in Life that belongs to her by right divine. The woman saw that, for her, all other work in the world would be but a makeshift—a substitute; and, because of this, while Life had, never before seemed so large, she had, never before felt so small—so useless.
But still, for the woman, there was peace in her loneliness—there was a peace that she had not had before—there was a calmness, a quietness, that was not hers before her trial. It was the peace of the lonely mountain top to which one climbs from out a noisy, clamoring, village; the calmness of the deep sky uncrossed by cloud or marked by smoke of human industry; the quietness of the wide prairie, untouched by man's improvements. And this tranquil rest was hers because she knew—deep in her woman's heart she knew—that she had done well; that she had not been untrue to the soul of her womanhood.
The woman knew that she had done well because she had come to understand that, while life is placed peculiarly in the care and keeping of her sex, her sex has been endowed, for the protection, perfection, and perpetuation of Life, with peculiar instincts. She had come to understand that, while woman has been made the giver and guardian of Life, she, for that reason, is subject to laws that are not to be broken save with immeasurable loss to the race. To her sex is given, by Life itself, the divine right of selection that the future of the race may be assured. To her sex is given an instinct superior to reason that her choice may perfect human kind. For her, and for the Life of her kind, there is the law that if she permits aught but her woman instinct to influence her in selecting her mate her children and the children of her children shall mourn.
In the crisis of her life the woman had heard many voices—bold and tempting, pleading and subtle—urging her to say: "Yes." But always her instinct—her woman heart—had whispered: "No. This man is not your mate. This is not the man you would choose to be the father of your children. Better, far better, contribute nothing to the race than break the law of your womanhood. Better, far better, never cross the threshold of that open door than cross it with one who, in your heart of hearts you know, to be not the right one."
So the woman had peace. Even in her loneliness, she had peace—knowing that she had done well.
And the woman tried, now, to interest herself in the things that so many of the women of her day seemed to find so interesting. She listened to brave lectures by stalwart women on woman's place and sphere in the world's work. She heard bold talks by militant women about woman's emancipation and freedom. She attended lectures by intellectual women on the higher life, and the new thought, and the advanced ideas. She read pamphlets and books written by modern women on the work of women in the social, political and industrial fields. She became acquainted with many "new" women who, striving mightily with all their strength of body and soul for careers, looked with a kind of lofty disdain or pitying contempt upon those old-fashioned mothers whose children interfere with the duty that "new" women think they owe the world.
But this woman who knew herself to be a woman could not interest herself in these things to which she tried to give attention. She felt that in giving herself to these things she would betray Life. She felt the hollowness, the shallowness, the emptyness of it all in comparison with that which is divinely committed to womankind. She could not but wonder: what would be the racial outcome? When women have long enough substituted other ideals for the ideals of motherhood—other passions for the passions of their sex—other ambitions for the ambition to produce and to perfect Life—other desires for the desire to keep that which Life has committed to them—what then? "How," she asked herself, "would the world get along without mothers? Or how could the race advance if the best of women refused to bear children?" And then came the inevitable thought: are thebestwomen, after all, refusing to bear children? Might it not be that the wisdom of Mother Nature is in this also, and that the refusal of a woman to bear children is the best evidence in the world that she is unfit to be a mother? Is it not better that the mothers of the race should be those who hold no ideal, ambition, desire, aim, or purpose in life higher than motherhood? Such women—such mothers—have, thus far, through their sons and daughters, won every victory in Life. It is they who have made every advance of the race possible. Will it not continue to be so, even unto the end? Is not this indeed the law of Life? If there be any work for women greater or of more value to the human race than the work of motherhood then, indeed, is the end of the world, for mankind, at hand.
From where she lay, the woman, when she first awoke that Christmas morning, could see the sun just touching the topmost branches of the tall trees that grew across the street.
It was a beautiful day. But the woman did not at first remember that it was Christmas. Idly, as one sometimes will when awakening out of a deep sleep, she looked at the sunshine on the trees and thought that the day promised to be clear and bright. Then, looking at the clock in the chubby arms of the fat cupid on the mantle, she noticed the time with a start of dismay. She must arise at once or she would be late to her work. Why, she wondered, had not someone called her. Then, a crumpled sheet of tissue paper and a bit of narrow ribbon on the floor, near the table, caught her eye and she remembered.
It was Christmas.
The woman dropped back upon her pillow. She need not go to work that day. She had not been called because it was a holiday. Dully she told herself again that it was Christmas.
The house was very quiet. There were no bare feet pattering down the hall to see what Santa Claus had left from his pack. No exulting shouts had awakened her. In the rooms below, there was no cheerful litter of toys and games and pop corn and candy and nuts with bits of string and crumpled paper from hastily opened parcels and shining scraps of tinsel from the tree. There were no stockings hanging on the mantle. At breakfast, there would be a few friendly gifts and, later, the postman would bring letters and cards with the season's greetings. That was all.
The sun, climbing higher above the tall buildings down town, peeped through the window and saw the woman lying very still. And the sun must have thought that the woman was asleep for her eyes were closed and upon her face there was the wistful smile of a child.
But the woman was not asleep though she was dreaming. She had escaped from the silent, childless, house and had fled far, far, away to a land of golden memories. She had gone back into her Yesterdays—to a Christmas in her Yesterdays.
Once again a little girl, she lived those happy, busy, days of preparation when she had asked herself a thousand times each day: what would the boy give her for Christmas? And always, as she wondered, the little girl had tried not to wish that it would be a doll lest she should be disappointed. And always she was unable to wish, half so earnestly, for anything else. Again she spent the hours learning the song that she was to sing at the church on Christmas eve and wondered, often, ifhewould like her new dress that mother was making for the occasion. And then, as the day drew near, there was that merry trip to the woods to bring the tree, followed by that afternoon at the church. The little girl wondered, that night of the entertainment, if the boy guessed how frightened she was for him lest he forget the words of his part; or, when she was singing before the crowd of people that filled the church, did he know that she saw only him? And then the triumph—the beautiful triumph—of that Christmas morning!
The little girl in the Yesterdays needed no one to remind her what day it was. As soon as it was light, she opened her eyes, and, wide awake in an instant, slipped from her bed to steal down stairs while the rest of the household still slept. And there, in the gray of the winter morning, she found his gift. It was so beautiful, so lifelike, with its rosy cheeks and brown hair that, almost, the little girl was afraid that she was not awake after all; and she caught her breath with a gasp of delight when she finally convinced herself that it was real. She knew that it was from the boy—sheknew. Quickly she clasped it in her arms, with a kiss and a mother hug; and then, back again she ran to her warm bed lest dolly catch cold. The other presents could wait until it was really, truly, daylight and uncle had made a fire; and she drew the covers carefully up under the dimpled chin of her treasure that lay in the hollow of her arm, close to her own soft little breast, as natural as life—as natural, indeed, as the mother life that throbbed in the heart of the little girl.
For women also it is written: "Except ye become as little children."If only women would understand!
All the other gifts of that Christmas time were as nothing to the little girl beside that gift from the boy. The other things she would enjoy all the more because the supreme wish of her heart had been granted; but, had she been disappointed inthat, allelsewould have had little power to please. Under all her Christmas pleasure there would have been a longing for something more. Her Christmas would not have satisfied. Her cup of happiness would not have been full. So, all the treasures that the world can lay at woman's feet will never satisfy if the one gift be lacking. And that woman who has felt in her arms a tiny form moulded of her own flesh—who has drawn close to her breast a soft little cheek and felt upon her neck the touch of a baby hand—that woman knows that I put down the truth when I write that those women who deny the mother instinct of their hearts and, for social position, pleasure, public notice, wealth, or fame, kill their love for children, are to be pitied above all creatures for they deny themselves the heaven that is their inheritance.
Eagerly, that morning, the little girl watched for the coming of the boy for she knew that he would not long delay; and, when she saw him wading through the snow, flung open wide the door to shout her greeting as she proudly held his gift close to her heart; while on her face and in her eyes was the light divine. And great fun they had, that Christmas day, with their toys and games and books; but never for long was the new doll far from the little girl's arms. Nor did she need many words to make her happiness in his gift understood to the boy.
The sun was shining full in the window now; quite determined that the woman should sleep no longer. Regretfully, as one who has little heart for the day, she arose just as footsteps sounded outside her door. Then came a sharp rap upon the panel and—"Merry Christmas"—called her uncle's hearty voice.
Bravely the woman who knew herself to be a woman answered: "MerryChristmas."