arity of this was
established by the fact that it was selling, not only in Beulah and
Greentown, but in Boston, and in Racine, Wisconsin, and, it was
rumored, even in Chicago. The village milliner in Beulah had disposed
of twenty-seven copies in thirteen days and the minister's wife was
universally conceded to be the most celebrated person in the State of
New Hampshire.

Letty Boynton had an uncomfortable moment when she saw the first card,
but common sense assured her that outside of a handful of neighbors no
one would identify her home surroundings; meantime she was proud of
Reba's financial and artistic triumph in "The Folks Back Home" and
generously glad that she had no share in it.

Twice during the autumn David had broken his silence, but only to
send her a postal from some Western town, telling her that he should
have no regular address for a time; that he was traveling for a
publishing firm and felt ill-adapted to the business. He hoped that
she and the children were well, for he himself was not; etc., etc.

The twins had been photographed by Osh Popham, who was Jack of all
trades and master of many, and a sight of their dimpled charms, curly
heads, and straight little bodies would have gladdened any father's
heart, Letty thought. However, she scorned to win David back by any
such specious means. If he didn't care to know whether his children
were hump-backed, bow-legged, cross-eyed, club-footed, or
feeble-minded, why should she enlighten him? This was her usual frame
of mind, but in these last days of the year how she longed to pop the
bewitching photographs and Reba's Christmas cards into an envelope and
send them to David.

But where? No word at all for weeks and weeks, and then only a postal
from St. Joseph, saying that he had given up his position on account
of poor health. Nothing in all this to keep Christmas on, thought
Letty, and she knitted and crocheted and sewed with extra ardor that
the twins' stockings might be filled with bright things of her own
making.

[Illustration]

VI

On the afternoon before Christmas of that year, the North Station in
Boston was filled with hurrying throngs on the way home for the
holidays. Everybody looked tired and excited, but most of them had
happy faces, and men and women alike had as many bundles as they could
carry; bundles and boxes quite unlike the brown paper ones with which
commuters are laden on ordinary days. These were white packages,
berib