II

Wishing Sparks


Round the Doctor's house frolicked the brisk, cold wind of a Christmas
eve, boisterously rattling the luminous checkerboard windows and the
Christmas wreaths, tormenting the cheerful flame in the old iron lantern
and whisking away the snow from the shivering elms, whistling eerily
down the Doctor's chimney to startle a strange little cripple by the
Doctor's fire, who, queerly enough, would not be startled.

For to Roger there had never been a wind so Christmasy, or a fire so
bright and warm, and his solemn black eyes glowed! Never a wealth of
holly and barberry and alder-berries so crimson as that which rimmed the
snug old house in Christmas flame! Never such evergreen wreaths, for,
tucked up here in this very chair by Aunt Ellen, he had made them all
himself of boughs from the evergreen forest! And never surely such
enticing odors as had floated out for the last two days from old Annie's
pots and pans as she baked and roasted and boiled and stewed in endless
preparation for Christmas day and the Christmas eve party, scolding away
betimes in indignant whispers at old Asher, who, by reason of a
chuckling air of mystery, was in perpetual disgrace.

Wonderful days indeed for Roger, with Sister Madge's smooth, pale cheeks
catching the flaring scarlet of the holly, and Sister Madge's slim and
willing fingers so busy hanging boughs that she had forgotten to sigh;
with motherly Aunt Ellen so warmly intent upon Roger's comfort and plans
for the masquerade that many a mysterious and significant occurrence
slipped safely by her kindly eyes; and with the excited Doctor's busy