ing they found
beneath it was the snow. The vivid crossbills, red and black and
white, would come to the yard in flocks, and the quaker-coloured
snow-buntings, and the big, trustful, childlike, pine grosbeaks, with
the growing stain of rose-purple over their heads and necks. These
kept Lidey interested, helping to pass the days that now, to her
excited anticipations, seemed so long. Perhaps half a dozen times a
day she would print a difficult communication to Santa Claus with some
new idea, some new suggestion. These missives were mailed to the good
Saint of Children by the swift medium of the roaring kitchen fire; and
as the draught whisked their scorching fragments upwards, Lidey was
satisfied that they went straight to their destination. The child's
joy in her anticipations was now the more complete because, since her
father's departure, her mother had ceased to discourage her hopes.

On the day before Christmas Eve, however, the mother felt symptoms of
a return of her old sickness. Immediately she grew anxious, realizing
how necessary it was that she should keep well. This nervous
apprehension hastened the result that she most dreaded. Her pain and
her weakness grew worse hour by hour. Mastered by her memories of
what she had been through before, she was in no mood to throw off the
attack. That evening, crawling to the barn with difficulty, she amazed
the horse and the cattle by coaxing them to drink again, then piled
their mangers with a two-days' store of hay, and scattered buckwheat
recklessly for the hens. The next morning she could barely drag
herself out of bed to light the fire; and Lidey had to make her
breakfast--which she did contentedly enough--on bread and butter and
unlimited molasses.

It was a weary day for the little one, in spite of her responsibilities.
Muffled up and mittened, she was able, under her mother's directions, to
carry a little water to the stock in a small tin kettle, making many
journeys. And she was able to keep the fire going. But the hours crept
slowly, and she was so consumed with impatience that all her usual
amusements lost their savour. Not even the rare delight of being
allowed to cut pictures out of some old illustrated papers could
divert her mind from its dazzling anticipations. But before Christmas
could come, must come her father; and from noon onward she would keep
running to the door every few minutes to peer expectantly down the
trail. She was certain that, at the wo