Here she made an impetuous movement and, covering her eyes with her
hands, burst into a despairing flood of confidence, the words crowding
each other and tumbling out of her mouth as if they feared to be
stopped.

"After I put the candle on the table ... I could not rest for thinking ...
I wasn't ready in my soul to light the Christ Child on his way ... I was
bitter and unresigned ... It is three years to-night since the children
were born ... and each year I have hoped and waited and waited and hoped,
thinking that David might remember. David! my brother, their father! Then
the fire on the hearth, the moon and the snow quieted me, and I felt that I
wanted to open the door, just a little. No one will notice that it's ajar,
I thought, but there's a touch of welcome in it, anyway. And after a few
minutes I said to myself: 'It's no use, David won't come; but I'm glad the
firelight shines on mother's picture, for he loved mother, and if she
hadn't died when he was scarcely more than a boy, things might have been
different.... The reason I opened the bedroom door--something I never do
when the babies are asleep--was because I needed a sight of their faces to
reconcile me to my duty and take the resentment out of my heart ... and it
did flow out, Reba,--out into the stillness. It is so dazzling white
outside, I couldn't bear my heart to be shrouded in gloom!"

"Poor Letty!" And Mrs. Larrabee furtively wiped away a tear. "How long
since you have heard? I didn't dare ask."

"Not a word, not a line for nearly three months, and for the half-year
before that it was nothing but a note, sometimes with a five-dollar
bill enclosed. David seems to think it the natural thing for me to
look after his children; as if there could be no question of any life
of my own."