I'm terrible foolish, but I couldn't help what I
done--"

"I don't wonder at it," said I, warmly; "you promised to spend Christmas
Eve with them and read aloud to them, didn't you, Calliope?"

"No!" Calliope cried; "I didn't do that. I should think they'd be sick
to death o' bein' read aloud to. I should think they'd be sick to death
bein' cheered up by their surroundin's. No--I invited the whole nine of
'em to come over an' spend Christmas Eve with me."

"Calliope!" I cried, "but how--"

"I know it," she exclaimed, "I know it. But they're all well an' hardy.
The charity corridor ain't expected in the infirmary much. An' Jimmy
Sturgis is goin' to bring 'em over free in the closed 'bus--I'll fill it
with hot bricks an' hot flat-irons an' bed-quilts. An' my land! you'd
ought to see 'em when I ask' 'em. I don't s'pose they'd had an invite
out in years. The navy-blue lady looked like I'd nipped a mountain off'n
her shoulders, too. An' now," said Calliope, "what on top o' this earth
will I do with 'em when I get 'em here?"

What indeed? I left my task and sat by her on the rug before the fire,
and we talked it over. But all the while we talked, I could see that she
was keeping something back--some plan of which she was doubtful.

"I ain't no money to spend, you know," she said, "an' I won't let
anybody else spend any for me, for this. Folks has plans enough o' their
own without mine. But I kep' sayin' to myself, all the way home when my
knees give down at the i-dee of what I was goin' to do: 'Calliope, the
Lord says, "_Give._" An' He meant you to give, same's those that hev
got. He didn't say, "Everybody give but Calliope, an' she ain't got
much, so she'd ought to be let off." He said, "_Give._"' An' He didn't
mention all nice things, same's I'd like to give, an' most everybody
does give--" she nodded toward my bed, brave with its Christmas array.
"He didn't mention givin' _things_ at all. An' so," said Calliope, "I
thought o' somethin' else."

She sat with brooding eyes on the fire, her hands clasped about her
knees.

"The Lord Christ," said Calliope, "didn't hev nothin' of His own. An'
yet He just give an' give an' give. An' somehow I got the _i_-dee," she
finished, glancing up at me shyly, "that mebbe Christmas ain't really
all in your stocking foot, after all. I ain't much to spend, and mebbe
that sounds some like sour grapes. But it seems like a good many
beautiful things is free to all, an' that they's ways t