e joy that was in it to quicken his
pace, to lengthen his stride, to strengthen his touch. Early in November
he found one night when he came to his rooms two letters waiting for
him with the welcome Kentucky postmark. They were in John Fairfield's
handwriting and in his daughter's, and "_place aux dames_" ruled rather
than respect to age, for he opened Shelby's first. His eyes smiling, he
read it.

"I am knitting you a diamond necklace for Christmas," she wrote. "Will
you like that? Or be sure to write me if you'd rather have me hunt in
the garden and dig you up a box of money. I'll tell you--there ought to
be luck in the day, for it was hidden on Christmas and it should be
found on Christmas; so on Christmas morning we'll have another look, and
if you find it I'll catch you 'Christmas gif'' as the darkies do, and
you'll have to give it to me, and if I find it I'll give it to you; so
that's fair, isn't it? Anyway--" and Philip's eyes jumped from line to
line, devouring the clear, running writing. "So bring a little present
with you, please--just a tiny something for me," she ended, "for I'm
certainly going to catch you 'Christmas gif'.'"

Philip folded the letter back into its envelope and put it in his
pocket, and his heart felt warmer for the scrap of paper over it. Then
he cut John Fairfield's open dreamily, his mind still on the words he
had read, on the threat--"I'm going to catch you 'Christmas gif'.'" What
was there good enough to give her? Himself, he thought humbly, very far
from it. With a sigh that was not sad he dismissed the question and
began to read the other letter. He stood reading it by the fading light
from the window, his hat thrown by him on a chair, his overcoat still
on, and, as he read, the smile died from his face. With drawn brows he
read on to the end, and then the letter dropped from his fingers to the
floor and he did not notice; his eyes stared widely at the high building
across the street, the endless rows of windows, the lights flashing into
them here and there. But he saw none of it. He saw a stretch of quiet
woodland, an old house with great white pillars, a silent, neglected
garden, with box hedges sweet and ragged, all waiting for him to come
and take care of them--the home of his fathers, the home he had meant,
had expected--he knew it now--would be some day his own, the home he
had lost! John Fairfield's letter was to tell him that the mortgage on
the place, running now so many yea