evour. Suddenly she saw, and into her face flamed an
expression of wonder, of awe, of adoration, a look such as a cherub
angel might wear while confronting The Great White Throne, a kind of
rapture, humble yet exultant.

Silently she crept toward the center of the room, turning her eyes from
this and to that unearthly splendor, yet always bringing them back to
rest upon the faces of the dollies, sitting so still and so radiant
beneath the glittering boughs. At last with a little gasping cry of joy
she seized the largest and most splendid of these wondrous beings and
clasped it to her breast, while Constance sat silent with her awe.

Their Christmas was complete. Another shining mark had been set in the
upward slope of their happy march! Nothing, not even Death himself, can
rob me of that precious memory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Old Homestead Suffers Disaster

The summer of 1912, so stormy in a political sense was singularly serene
and happy for us. The old house had been received back into favor. It
was beloved by us all but especially was it dear to my children. To Mary
Isabel it possessed a value which it could not have to any of us, for it
was her birth-place and she knew every stick and stone of it. To her it
had all the glamor of a childhood home in summer time.

On Sunday, October 6, we began to plan our return to the city, and as we
sat about our fire that night the big room never looked so warm, so
homelike, so permanent. The deep fireplace was ablaze with light, and
the walls packed with books and hung with pictures spoke of a realized
ideal. On the tall settee (which I had built myself), lay a
richly-colored balletta Navajo blanket, one that I had bought of a
Flathead Indian in St. Ignatius. Others from Zuni and Ganado covered the
floor. Over the piano "Apple Blossom Time," a wedding present from John
Ennecking glowed like a jewel in the light of the quaint electric
candles which had been set in the sockets of hammered brass sconces. In
short, the place had the mellow charm of a completed home, and I said to
Zulime "There isn't much more to do to it. It is rude and queer, a
mixture of Paris, Boston, and the Wild West; but it belongs to us." It
was in truth a union of what we both represented, including our
poverty, for it was all cheap and humble.

My father, white-haired, eighty-two years of age was living with us
again, basking in the light of our fire and smiling at his
grandchildren, who