ight, and at eight I stood waiting at the window
of my little living room, saying to myself that if I were to drop from
the air to a deserted country road, I should be certain that it was
Christmas Eve. You can tell Christmas Eve anywhere, like a sugar-plum,
with your eyes shut. It is not the lighted houses, or the
close-curtained windows behind which Christmas trees are fruiting; nor
yet, in Friendship, will it be the post-office store or the home bakery
windows, gay with Christmas trappings. But there is in the world a
subdued note of joyful preparation, as if some spirit whom one never may
see face to face had on this night a gift of perceptible life. And in
spite of my loneliness, my heart upleaped to the note of a distant
sleigh-bell jingling an air of "Home, going Home, Christmas Eve and
going Home."

Then, when the big Proudfit car came flashing to my door, I had a sweet
surprise. For from it, through the snowy dark, came running a little
fairy thing, and Viola Ordway danced to my door with her mother, muffled
in furs.

"We've been close in the house all day," Mrs. Ordway cried, "and now
we've run away to get you. Come!"

As for me, I took Viola in my arms and lifted her to my hall table and
caught off her cloak and hood. I can never resist doing this to a child.
I love to see the little warm, plump body in its fine white linen emerge
rose-wise, from the calyx cloak; and I love that shy first gesture,
whatever it may be, of a child so emerging. The turning about, the
freeing of soft hair from the neck, the smoothing down of the frock, the
half-abashed upward look. Viola did more. She laid one hand on my cheek
and held it so, looking at me quite gravely, as if that were some secret
sign of brotherhood in the unknown, which she remembered and I, alas!
had forgotten. But I perfectly remembered how to kiss her. If only, I
thought, all the empty arms could know a Viola. If only all the empty
arms, up and down the world, could know a Viola even just at Christmas
time. If only--

Over the top of Viola's head I looked across at Nita Ordway, and a
sudden joyous purpose lighted all the air about me--as a joyous purpose
will. Oh, if only--And then I heard myself pouring out a marvellous
jumble of sound and senselessness.

"Nita!" I cried, "you are not a Friendship Village mother! You are not
afraid. Viola is not going to the new minister's Christmas tree. Oh,
don't you see? It's still early--surely we have time! The g