east heaved, her eyes
sparkled, glad as a child would be, simply because it was cold and
Christmas was coming; while the child Jem, with his tougher, less sappy
animal nature, jogged gravely beside her, head and eyes down. As for her
every-day life, nobody's fires burned, nobody's windows shone like
Martha Yarrow's; not a pound of butter went to market with the creamy,
clovery taste her fingers worked into hers. She put a flavor, an elastic
spring, into every bit of work she did, making it play. The very
nervousness of the woman, her sudden fits of laughter and tears,
impressed you as the effervescence of a zest of life which began at her
birth. Nobody ever got to the end, or expected to get to the end, of her
stories and scraps of old songs. Then, every day some new plan, keeping
the whole house awake and alive: when Tom's birthday came, a
surprise-feast of raspberries and cake; when Jem's new trousers were
produced, they had been made up over-night, a dead secret, ten shining
dimes in the pocket, fresh from the mint; even the penny string of blue
beads for Catty, bought of Sims the peddler, was hid under her plate,
and made quite a jollification of that supper. You may be sure, the five
years just gone in that house had been short and merry and cozy enough
for the children. Before that--Here Jem's memory flagged: he had been a
baby then; Catty just born; yet, somehow, he never thought of that
unknown time without the furtive, keen glance into his mother's face,
and a frightened choking in the heart under his puny chest. Somewhere,
back yonder, or in the years coming, some vague horror waited for him to
fight. To-night, (always at Christmas, although then the glow and
comfort of all days reached its heat,) this unaccountable dread was on
the boy; why, he never knew. It might be that under the hurry and
preparation of Martha Yarrow on that day some deeper meaning did lie,
which his instinct had discerned: more probably, however, it was but the
sickly vagary of a child grown old too fast.

They hurried along the path now to reach the house and shut the night
outside, for every moment the cold and dark were growing heavier; the
snow rasping under their feet, as its crust cracked; overhead, the
sky-air frozen thin and gray, holding dead a low, watery half-moon; now
and then a more earthy, thicker gust breaking sharply round the hill,
taking their breath. It was only a step, however, and Tom was holding
the house-door open,