"Sing low, indeed: and softly bleat,
You lambing ewes about her feet,
Lest you should wake the child from sleep!
No other hour so still and sweet
Shall fall for Mary's heart to keep
Until her death hour on her creep,
Sing soft, the Eve of Mary."

There was silence for a moment.

"Why did you choose that one, young Lydia?" asked Levine.

"I don't know. I seemed to like it," answered Lydia. "It's a girl's
poem. Gosh, I've been happy to-day! Daddy, you thought we'd have an
awful poor Christmas, didn't you? Poor old Daddy! Why, I've just felt
all day as if my heart was on tip-toes."

It had indeed been a high day for the child. Perhaps she remembered it
for years after as one of her perfect days, because of the heart
breaking days that followed.

For little Patience for the first time in her tiny life was taken ill.
For three or four days after Christmas she was feverish and cross with
a hoarse cold. When Amos came home the fourth night, he thought she
had the croup and sent Lydia pelting through the darkness for the dairy
farmer's wife. Mrs. Norton, the mother of Billy, was not long in
coming to a decision.

"'Tain't regular croup. You go after the doctor, Mr. Dudley."