FullReads

She has wound them now. She has floundered into the snow again. Two or three falls on her way home,–but no danger that she loses the line of march. The light above her own house is before her. So she has only to aim at that. Home again! And now to wait for five hours,–and then to wind that light again–at midnight!

“And at midnight there was a cry made”–“oh dear!–if he would come,–I would not ask for any cry!”–

* * * * *

And Laura got down her choice inlaid box, that Jem brought her from sea,–and which held her treasures of treasures. And the dear girl did the best thing she could have done. She took these treasures out.–You know what they were, do not you? They were every letter Tom Cutts ever wrote her–from the first boy note in print,–“Laura,–these hedgehog quills are for you. I killed him. TOM.” And Laura opened them all,–and read them one by one, each twice,–and put them back, in their order, without folding, into the box. At ten she stopped,–and worked her way upstairs into her own lantern,–and wound its works again. She tried to persuade herself that there was less wind,–did persuade herself so. But the snow was as steady as ever. Down the tower-stairs again,–and then a few blessed minutes brooding over Matty’s crib, and dear little Tom who has kicked himself right athwart her own bed where she had laid him. Darlings! they are so lovely, their father must come home to see them! Back then to her kitchen fire. There are more of dear Tom’s letters yet. How manly they are,–and how womanly. She will read them all!–will she ever dare to read them all again?

Yes,–she reads them all,–each one twice over,–and his soldier diary,–which John Wildair saved and sent home, and, as she lays it down, the clock strikes twelve. Christmas day is born!–

“And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh.” Laura fairly repeated this aloud. She knew that the other carcel must be wound again. She dressed herself for the fight thoroughly. She ran in and trusted herself to kiss the children. She opened the lee-door again, and crept round again into the storm,–familiar now with such adventure. Did the surf beat as fiercely on the rocks? Surely not. But then the tide is now so low! So she came to her other tower, crept up and wound her clock-work up again, wiped off, or tried to wipe off, what she thought was mist gathering on the glasses, groped down the stairway, and looked up on the steady light above her own home. And the Christmas text came back to her. “The star went before them, and stood above the place where the young child was.”

“A light to lighten the Gentiles,–and the glory of my people Israel!”

“By the way of the sea,”–and this Laura almost shouted aloud,–“Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, and to them who sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.” “Grant it, merciful Father,–grant it for these poor children!” And she almost ran through the heavy drifts, till she found the shelter again of her friendly tower. Her darlings had not turned in their bed, since she left them there.

And after this Laura was at rest. She took down her Bible, and read the Christmas chapters. It was as if she had never known before what darkness was,–or what the Light was, when it came. She took her Hymn Book and read all the Christmas Hymns. She took her Keble,–and read every poem for Advent and the hymn for Christmas morning. She knew this by heart long ago. Then she took Bishop Ken’s “Christian Year,”–which Tom had given for her last birthday present,–and set herself bravely to committing his “Christmas Day” to memory:–