Ray a roasted apple, its burnished sides bursting with juice
and clotted with cream, and the boy glanced at it and never saw it,
little Jane felt ready to cry; and she set to bethinking herself
seriously if there were nothing else to be done.

One day, it was the day before Christmas, Jane took up to Ray's room one
of her trifles, a whip, whose _suave_ and frothy nothingness was piled
over the sweet plum-pulp at bottom. Ray lay on the outside of the bed,
with his thick poncho over him; he looked at her and at her tray, played
with the teaspoon a moment, then rolled upon his side and shut his
eyes. Little Jane took a half-dozen steps about the room, reached the
door, hesitated, and came back.

"Ray," said she, under her breath and with tears in her voice, "I wish
you wouldn't do so. You don't know how it makes me feel. I can't do
anything for you but bring whips and custards; and you won't touch
those."

Ray turned and looked up at her.

"Do you care, Janet?" said he; and, rising on one arm, he lifted the
glass, and finished its delicate sweetmeat with a gust.

But as he threw himself back, little Jane took heart of grace once more.

"Ray, dear," said she, "I don't think it's right for you to stay here
alone in the cold. Won't you come down where it's warm? It's so much
more cheerful by the fire."

"I don't want to be cheerful," said Ray.

Janet looked at the door, then summoned her forces, and, holding the
high bedpost with both hands, said,--

"Ray, if God sent you any trouble, He never meant for you to take it so.
You are repulsing Him every day. You are straightening yourself against
Him. You are like a log on His hands. Can't you bend beneath it? Dear
Ray, you need comfort, but you never will find it till you take up your
life and your duties again, and come down among us."

"What duties have I?" said Ray, hoarsely, looking along his footless
limb. "The sooner my life ends, oh, the better! I want no comfort!"

But little Jane had gone.

Christmas day dawned clear and keen; the sky was full of its bluest
sparkle, and, wheresoever it mounted and stretched over snowy fields,
seemed to hold nothing but gladness. Vivia had wrapped herself in her
cloak, and walked two miles to an early church-service, so if by any
accord of worship she might put her heart in tune with the universe. She
had been at home a half-hour already, and sat in her old nook with some
idle work between her fingers. A broad blaze rolled