from the _Maid in Two Minds_. 'Likely enough,' thought I, 'he's
turned in, to sleep it off; and that's the best could happen to him';
and by and by I put the poor fellow clean out o' my head. I made
myself a dish o' tea, got out supper, and ate it with a thankful
heart, though I missed the boys; but, then again, I no sooner missed
them than I praised God they had caught the train. They would be
nearin' home by this time; and I sat for a while picturin' it: the
kitchen, and the women-folk there, that must have made up their minds
to spend Christmas without us; particularly Lisbeth Mary--that's my
daughter, Daniel's wife--with her mother to comfort her, an' the
firelight goin' dinky-dink round the cups and saucers on the
dresser. I pictured the joy of it, too, when Sam or Daniel struck
rat-tat and clicked open the latch, or maybe one o' the gals pricked
up an ear at the sound of their boots on the cobbles. I 'most hoped
the lads hadn't been thoughtful enough to send on a telegram.
My mind ran on all this, sir; and then for a moment it ran back to
myself, sittin' there cosy and snug after many perils, many joys;
past middle-age, yet hale and strong, wi' the hand o' the Lord
protectin' me. 'The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack
nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth
beside the waters of comfort. He shall convert my soul . . .'

"I don't know how it happened, sir, but of a sudden a well o' warmth
ran through me and all over me, just like a spring burstin'. 'Waters
o' Comfort?' Ay, maybe . . . maybe. Funny things happen on
Christmas Eve, they say. My old mother believed to her last day that
every Christmas Eve at midnight the cattle in their challs went down
on their knees, throughout the land . . .

"But the feelin', if you understand me, wasn't Christmas-like at all.