the wife, and she knitting,
knitting away still. Not a word was passing. She had Michael's supper
ready for him, hot and tasty, the same as ever. But he had no _goo_ for
it. What did he care was it good or bad! How could he feel gay and riz
up in himself, the way a body should at the Christmas, when he knew well
Herself had been crying away while he had been down at the stable?

If only she'd cheer up! If only she'd agree to have the place dressed
out, and the Crib and all the other little things done the same as ever!
It would do herself good, and they might be having a happy Christmas
after all, even if there was only the two of them there with themselves!
But he said nothing. Big as Michael was, and little as the Woman was
that owned him, it was she had the upper hand in the house. And good
right, too; she being a very understanding person, and considered to be
a good adviser of a woman all over Ardenoo. Michael was slow, but he was
wise enough to give in to the wife. So now when she showed no wish for
any of the things he was so made upon, he said no more about them; only
after a while says he, "I believe it's what I'll take a streel off to
see is the cow all right in the stable below...."

But what he really wanted was, to get away from the queer, unhappy feel
of the silent kitchen. He thought, too, he'd like another sight of the
dressed-out stable and the big Candle he had lit there. He meant to stop
a bit with those Christmas signs, and the ass, and the munch, munch of
the cow, filling the place with her fragrant breath.

Wasn't it a pity of the world that Herself was having none of the
pleasure? If only he could tell her what he had been doing! If only he
could get her to come too, and see how lovely the stable looked!

As he passed out on the door, the Vanithee looked after him. A kind of
pity rose warm in her heart, as she saw the fretted appearance was upon
the big man, like a cowed dog, with his tail drooping between his legs.

All the bygone Christmas Eves they had put in there together! Kind,
pleasant times, with little old nonsense and laughing, that no one
understood, only themselves! Art had been there, to be sure! He had been
the delight of the first of their Christmases, and the same always, till
he went off. But was it Michael's fault that the son wasn't there yet?
Sure poor Michael had done nothing to fret her! It wasn't he had
neglected to write! And wasn't it full as bad for him, Michael, that