he
front door if you're going," said Mary. "You might as well use it when
it's open."

As Jenny passed the open parlour door, she looked in again at the bare
room.

"Don't you _like_ pictures?" she asked abruptly.

"I like 'em when I like 'em," Mary answered. "I didn't like them I had
up here--I had a shot stag and a fruit piece and an eagle with a child
in its claws. I've loathed 'em for years, but I ain't ever had the heart
to throw 'em out till now. They're over behind the coal bin."

Jenny thought. "They's a picture over to mother's," she said, "that she
ain't put up because she ain't had the money to frame it. I guess I'll
bring it over after supper and see if you don't want it up here--frame
or no frame." She looked at Mary and laughed. "If I bring it to you
to-night," she said, "it ain't a Christmas present--legal. But if I want
to call it a Christmas present inside me, the town can't help that."

"What's the picture?" Mary asked.

"I don't know who it represents," said Jenny, "but it's nice."

When Jenny had gone, Mary Chavah stood in the snow shaking the rug she
had left outside, and looking at the clean, white town.

"It looks like it was waiting for something," she thought.

A door opened and shut. A child shouted. In the north east a shining
body had come sparkling above the trees--Capella of the brightness of
one hundred of our suns, being born into the twilight like a little
star....

Mary closed the parlour windows and stood for a moment immersed in the
quiet and emptiness of the clean rooms.

"This looks like it was waiting for something, too," she thought. "But
it ought to know it won't get it," she added whimsically.

Then she went back to the warm room and saw the letter on the shelf. She
meant to go in a moment to the stable to make it safe there for the
night; so, with the gray shawl still binding her head and falling to her
feet, she sat by the stove and read the letter.

V

"... because she wasn't sick but two days and we never thought of
her dying till she was dead. Otherwise we'd have telegraphed. She
was buried yesterday, right here, and we'll get some kind of stone.
You say how you think it'd ought to be marked. That's about all
there is to tell except about _Yes_. He's six years old now and
Aunt Mary this ain't a place for him. He's a nice little fellow and
I hate for him to get rough and he will if he stays here. I'll do
the b