Christmas fell on Thursday that year. It had been cloudy all the
early part of the week, and on Wednesday morning Jean had opened
her eyes in the cold, gray dawn, to see the air filled with
whirling snowflakes that went dancing and skurrying this way and
that before the noisy wind. Such a tempting morning to pull the
blankets over one's shoulders and nestle down for another nap! But
there was no such luxury for Jean; she scarcely had time to
realize that this was the dawn of the Christmas eve. A careless
step on a slippery roof, a cutting wind which had numbed him too
much to let him save himself, these had given her father a bad
fall so that work was out of the question for a long time to come.
Her mother was busy caring for her husband and doing a little
sewing at odd moments, so the main charge of the house and of the
children had fallen on Jean's strong young shoulders, which were
bearing the load with a merry willingness that is so much more
helpful than mere patient endurance. And really, if it had not
been for Christmas, Jean would not have minded it so much. But it
was hard to think of the fun the other girls were having over
their mysterious plans; and though she had no time to join them,
in fancy she pictured their merry afternoons together, while Alan
dodged about them, pretending to pry and peep into the carefully
covered work-baskets.
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