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“You’ve had the news. I guess Mother Jarvis has the next right.” And she was off over the hills with almost the lightness and swiftness of a snowbird.

In due time Zeke appeared, and smiled encouragingly on Mrs. Rolliffe, who sat knitting by the kitchen fire. The matron did not rise, and gave him but a cool salutation. He discussed the coldness of the weather awkwardly for a few moments, and then ventured: “Is Miss Susan at home?”

“No, sir,” replied Mrs. Rolliffe; “she’s gone to make a visit to her mother-in-law that is to be, the Widow Jarvis. Ezra Stokes is sittin’ in the next room, sent home sick. Perhaps you’d like to talk over camp-life with him.”

Not even the cider now sustained Zeke. He looked as if a cannon- ball had wrecked all his hopes and plans instead of a shovel. “Good-evening, Mrs. Rolliffe,” he stammered; “I guess I’ll–I’ll– go home.”

Poor Mrs. Jarvis had a spiritual conflict that day which she never forgot. Susie’s face had flashed at the window near which she had sat spinning, and sighing perhaps that Nature had not provided feathers or fur for a brood like hers; then the girl’s arms were about her neck, the news was stammered out–for the letter could never be shown to any one–in a way that tore primness to tatters. The widow tried to act as if it were a dispensation of Providence which should be received in solemn gratitude; but before she knew it she was laughing and crying, kissing her sweet-faced daughter, or telling how good and brave Zeb had been when his heart was almost breaking.

Compunction had already seized upon the widow. “Susan,” she began, “I fear we are not mortifyin’ the flesh as we ought—“

“No mortifying just yet, if you please,” cried Susie. “The most important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb hasn’t heard the news; just think of it! You must write and tell him that I’ll help you spin the children’s clothes and work the farm; that we’ll face everything in Opinquake as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the ink-horn? I’ll sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and SUCH news as he’ll get! Wish I could tell him, though, and see the great fellow tremble once more. Afraid of me! Ha! ha! ha! that’s the funniest thing–Why, Mother Jarvis, this is Christmas Day!”

“So it is,” said the widow, in an awed tone. “Susie, my heart misgives me that all this should have happened on a day of which Popery has made so much.”

“No, no,” cried the girl. “Thank God it IS Christmas! and hereafter I shall keep Christmas as long as love is love and God is good.”